


Striptease With A Difference

by Das_verlorene_Kind



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Fake/Pretend Relationship, He'll be dressed up in more outfits throghout the fics, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Patrick in a sexy bunny suit, Pete struggles with getting older, Shameless Smut, Sobriety, author!pete, escort!Patrick - Freeform, society isn't kind about aging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-06-30 04:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15744324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind
Summary: Pete Wentz, famous author and former scandalous partyboy of LA, is getting older, tired and boring, sobriety forces him to abandon the drugs, and his newest book just won't come along. When his dreaded 29th birthday approaches, Pete decides it's time to do something extraordinary, and since coke and expensive champagne are out of question, he decides to get a big cake.With a stripper inside.And somehow, Pete just can't get said stripper -escort, as he insists being called - out of his head. Or his life...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SNITCHES!
> 
> This fanfic is decicated to you, dear friend, patient beta reader, excellent author and just one of the most important driving forces in my bandom experience. I am so glad to have you with us in the Fall Out Boy fandom with your infinite talent and tales from back in the days! And how better to celebrate that than with some porn!?  
> I've been whining forever about some of my regrets with my first hooker fic (like, not drawing more art for it) so I decided I'll take another swing at hooker fics, and this time, throw my own hooker!Patrick into the ring. Don't call him that though, he prefers the term _escort_.
> 
> Contains some artwork, some of it rather explicit. You have been warned.
> 
> Thanks to Semi & laudanum for beta-reading and brainstorming! Title, of course, stolen from a Morrissey song.

Even if people haven’t heard of _Pete Wentz_ , they’ve heard of Pete Wentz.

 

Pete, the pretty party boy. A good alliteration, only ruined by the fact that Pete shed his name like a too-tight shell, traded it for an alias made up on a whim that stuck to him like thorns under fingernails. The stamp of his father’s name, the legacy that Peter the Third was never able to uphold, hidden beneath something new and shiny. Something better. Something that’s just _Pete’s_ legacy.

 

Even if people haven’t heard of Pete Wentz, they’ve _certainly_ heard of Jason Kingston.

 

Jason, the young, hip, up-and-coming author of novels that take the world by storm. Jason, the author whose astonishing looks match the twisted beauty of his prose. Jason, the one who pours his ugly heart into pretty words, sharp sentences, a printed dagger ready to make the world bleed out slowly.

A book signing with the successful, smiling author, Jason’s whiskey eyes, slightly narrowed as flash, flash, flash, the lights of cameras all around him turn the world bright white. Bright white. Bright white.

Bright white, and Jason’s eyes widen, pupils dilated, blood pumped up with glittering powder and pills. The hottest club, he’s there, always in the middle of something, be it a wild party, an ecstatic consumption of drugs, the pages of his notebook, someone else’s legs. Jason takes from life with both hands, the good and the bad. Mostly, the bad. Misery sells, and Jason is the car accident no one can look away from.

Flash, flash, Jason’s eyes widen comically as the paps take yet another incriminating picture of him with drugs, him in suspicious company, passed out, drunk, out of his mind. Word vomit on pages turns into actual vomit in high-class bathrooms, and into the newest scandal story about the scandalous author. Insanity refuses to be banned on paper, his doctor refuses to write more prescriptions, his agent Joe refuses a new contract unless Jason agrees to go away.

Thirty days in the clinic, and a lifetime of rehab, meetings, prayers to a higher deity and twelve steps need to be repeated like a worn-out cassette. Pete just loves to build his own prisons, lock himself away in yet another inescapable cell forever.

 

Pete has cleared his act since those days; not his alias’ image, that’s still covered in the mud thrown at him over the years, but Pete is doing better. No more parties, no more drugs, no more scandals. Instead he has rehab, counseling, plenty of meetings, and his one-year sobriety coin under his belt. He’s growing old and boring, he has to. Sometimes Pete theorizes that a person only has a finite amount of partying in them, and a limit on how much they can harm their body with various substances. And, well, Jason Kingston has used up all of Pete’s party time and consumed enough drugs for a lifetime. Nothing left for Pete. It simply isn’t fair.

Maybe that’s why his latest book isn’t going well. Pete changes the reasoning for his slow work process every few weeks, but right now, his theory is his lack of allowed fun. It’s better than wondering if maybe, he also had a finite amount of good ideas and useful words, all used up now, leaving him as an empty shell that isn’t even allowed a little line of coke now and again.

Pete sits at his desk, stares at an empty screen. A familiar scene, for weeks now. The only things that have changed around him are the pile of dishes and the date. Spring is on its last breath, about to blow up and explode into a cascade of summer sunlight. As if it wasn’t hot enough already.

Since Pete’s only remaining drug is self-pity, he allows himself a heavy sigh. If he can’t party hard, can’t have some simple fun, and has to face that his 29th birthday, just lurking at the start of June, marking the slow death of his raving twenties, it had better be amazing in every other category.

He is not motivated to celebrate his dooming decline, but then again, it’s not like people will let him forget about it. With another sigh, Pete leans back in his seat, all too willing to forget about his lack of work progress to focus on this other, way more convenient problem.

A birthday. The last one was spent in rehab, among the other addicts, pretty much forgotten among despair and withdrawal symptoms. This year, Pete is out and sober, has nowhere to hide. If he can’t sweep it under the rug, well… What else is there to do? Spite takes over, replaces the lead of self-pity in Pete’s veins with burning anger. Pete feels like stomping his feet, crying out like a little boy. He wants all his friends to come and he wants all the presents. He wants glitter and balloons and all the sweets and fried chicken his mom never allowed him to have and the biggest cake his mom never bought him. He’s an adult with money to spend on anything but frivolous drugs now, so…

An idea sparks in his brain. Yes, Pete wants a real big cake. A cake his mom certainly never would’ve bought him in a million years.

Pete wants a big, fancy cake.

 

With a stripper inside.

 

 

 

Pete originally met him when Gabe’s clothing line bought the rights to make merchandise to one of his book series, and ever since, Gabe’s been staying at his side.

Saporta has his hands in everything. Besides the clothing line – which has everything from movie merchandise to neon sweaters to outdated scene-look shirts, a living Hot Topic dream – Gabe owns multiple bars, rents out a recording studio, works as the occasional DJ, and is always involved in a million other projects that Pete doesn’t even know of.

Currently, Gabe is sitting in Pete’s living room, drinking expensive bottled water and enjoying the air conditioning. Yet another welcome distraction from the bright white of Pete’s screen. He hasn’t got much further in his writing. Best not to think about it. Best to focus on something else. _Drop the thought_ , recovery calls it; _denial_ suits it better here, and Pete is a master of that.

Pete gets up, throws himself on the couch. “I want a cake for my birthday,” he announces.

“How very unusual,” Gabe retorts while he scrolls through his phone, unbothered by Pete’s legs on his lap. “What’s the catch?”

Pete pouts, and pokes Gabe’s ribcage with his toes. “You don’t get it, Saporta. I want a cake with a stripper inside.”

That gets Gabe to put his phone down for a moment as he contemplates the thought. There isn’t even any surprise, and Pete doesn’t know if  Gabe expects this crazy shit from him, or because it’s not actually an unusual request for Gabe.

“Want me to give you some names?” Gabe just says, as if Pete had asked for a restaurant recommendation. “I know some good places. Expensive, but discreet. All as legit as it gets, treat their girls well, everyone’s healthy and hot. High class, amigos.”

Pete shakes his head, pokes Gabe again only to get his feet pushed off Gabe’s lap. “It has to be a guy. A girl is too normal. It’s _my_ birthday, and I want a hot guy and the shocked faces of everyone as he gets out of that cake.”

Pete still craves the drugs, but since he can’t have those anymore, at least he should be allowed a little intoxicating infamy.

“Your birthday, your decision,” is all Gabe comments, “I’m sure I can find you a good agency for that, too. Give me a few days to make some calls.”

“Knew I could count on you,” Pete says with a grin.

“Always,” Gabe says, and Pete knows he means it.

 

 

 

Gabe stays true to his words. A few days later, Pete finds an email from him in his inbox, boasting links to several websites. Pete randomly clicks on one, and scrolls through the gallery.

He doesn’t want one of those muscly guys on steroids. He doesn’t want any of the bears, he’s not into hairy guys either. Just someone normal. Someone cute. Someone as sweet-looking as the cake Pete wants him to jump out of. He imagines a soft, saccharine little guy as pale as the cake’s cream topping; yes, yes, that sounds good. The clothes – or rather, what little a stripper would wear – oh, Pete knows already, his fantasies fueled by the forbidden pictures of boyhood, glossy photographs in magazines hidden away from his parent’s eyes, with beautiful girls in bunny suits matching the magazine’s logo. Tight, sexy, with a cocky nod to innocence with the bunny ears perched upon carefully styled hair. Yes, Pete wants clichés, wants to be reminded of summers spent carefree, the dawn of sexual awakening in his teens, an all-American experience wrapping tightly around a cute boy’s body.

It’s overwhelming, and Pete feels slightly wrong staring at the pictures on screen, as if he were to order expensive takeout or new clothes. Scouting out people in a bar is one thing, but this… Feels off. Too many choices to make, too many faces and so much text and anxiety threatens to ruin this before it has even started.

 

In the end, Pete just calls the agency and describes what he wants in painstaking and horribly embarrassing detail. The woman on the phone keeps asking polite but firm questions, and Pete stutters his way through, his clumsy words painting a vulgar picture of his equally vulgar-feeling wishes. It’s not like him, Pete usually isn’t shy or short of words, but he also usually isn’t sitting in his living room, all alone, phone pressed to his cheek as he orders a high-class stripper to come pop out of a fake cake for his birthday. Regret befalls him, but the woman on the line has a gentle, reassuring voice, and it’s too late to back out now. Pete uses words like “soft” and “cute” and "first summer love" and lists his sexual preferences as if he was dictating groceries.

Eventually, Pete ends the call with a deep sigh, and one last request.

“Make sure the guy can at least sing me a decent Happy Birthday.”

 

 

A few days later, Pete is having yet another uncomfortable phone call.

“How’s the book coming along?” Joe, his agent, asks, a little weary because deep down, he knows the answer.

“Not well,” Pete answers truthfully because Joe can see through his bullshit anyway. He hears his agent sigh, and feels guilty. The ever-present bad conscience is a really bad side effect of sobriety that no one bothered to tell Pete about. Joe’s a good guy, has helped settle the deals that got Pete tons of fame and money, got his books to shoot up on the New York Times bestseller list three times now, he’s stood with Pete through rehab and any other shit he’s pulled.

“Lighten up, Trohman. Can’t force inspiration, can you?” Pete fakes a laugh, then decides to change the topic. “I’m gonna throw a big party for my birthday.”

“Is that a good idea for someone sober?” Joe inquires, always the sensible one.

Pete scoffs. “I can handle myself,” he says with a pout, “besides, I’ll be too busy with the stripper from the cake to get tempted by drugs.”

“You _what?”_ Joe screams, but Pete just hangs up on him.

 

 

Pete manages to almost forget about the whole awkwardness over the organization of everything else for the big day that is approaching faster than he likes. Twenty-nine, which means 365 more days of his twenties left, and Pete can’t deal. He really can’t. He hadn’t even planned to stay alive for this long, but now he’s here, looking at sober-friendly party drinks and hitting up Gabe for some help.

Just as Pete expected, the party is depressing. No more ravaging alcoholic feasts, no more popping pills in the bathroom and snorting coke from the naked body of a hot girl, not even a little joint. The same faces marked with the same mistakes, people around Pete dared to get older too; drugs traded for the newest low-carb diet, the model boy- and girlfriends turned into spouses and parents, dick pics and condoms in their wallets replaced with wholesome family portraits. Pete smiles and nods, cracks his knuckles and hates the life he doesn’t recognize, and the party that he’s missing out on.

He’s even wearing a shirt, smart, sensible, casual chic. Not voluntarily. No more mesh tops and naked torsos, no more fashion mistakes, Joe insisted he looks “ _like a respectable author, Pete, think about your image, I didn’t put in all that effort into rebuilding it just for you to ruin it_ ”. As he tugs at the collar, Pete feels even older.

 

Things only start to look up once the ridiculously giant cake is rolled into the living room.

 

Pete feels like a pervert for about three seconds, then forgets his worries when Joe emerges from amongst the surprised crowd.

“Pete,” Joe says in an alarmed voice, “what the hell is this? I thought you were joking!”

“That’s my birthday cake,” Pete replies as casually as possible. He downs his diet Coke as if it was a sophisticated drink rather than a shitty soda, and grins at his agent. “And it’s got a little surprise for me inside, too. Don’t worry, no boobies or nipples,” Joe almost sighs, “it’s actually a guy.”

With that, Pete flees the scene as Joe almost chokes on his drink. A large hand on his back announces the presence of Gabe, who shoves Pete towards the cake. Pete lets himself get pushed onto a chair, feeling like a six-year old kid about to get his presents. Except this pretty present will be better.

The crowd goes silent as from somewhere, the melody of Happy Birthday is played. Pete feels ridiculous, he feels his nerves buzzing with the perverse thrill of humiliation, infamy, and pleasure. It’s the closest to a high he has felt ever since he got sober.

 

And then, the stupid giant cake pops open.

 

The agency got it right - the boy can sing. Oh, can he sing. Pete would applaud him for that alone, if only he wasn’t so focused on everything else about him.

A pair of bunny ears ar eperched on copper-colored hair, its strands framing a pale, boyish face. Eyes rimmed black, lips a delicious shade of pink, forming words that barely reach Pete’s consciousness. A white faux fur stole is draped over him, soon discarded under the laughs and whistles of the audience.

The tight, tight suit that the stripper is wearing leaves nothing to the imagination. It reveals naked arms and the fragile curve of his shoulders, the shadows of his clavicle, follows the smoothness of a soft tummy, matching the nice curve of bunny boy’s ass and thighs. More importantly, it clings to the bulge between bunny boy’s legs. Of course, it’s covered modestly by the suit, but the tightness of the white fabric only further reveals the promise of what’s underneath. The kid is _packing_ , and Pete’s mouth is starting to water. _Hung like a bunny_ never sounded so appealing.

The stripper is still singing, but Pete is barely paying attention. He finally looks up again, catching a lascivious wink before bunny boy turns around, arms resting on the fake cake as he looks over his shoulder, wiggles his hips a little to show off his backside. A white tail matching the ears completes the bunny ensemble, although Pete’s attention is much more focused on the round swell of his ass, the firm flesh of his thighs, the black sock garters over his calves an exquisite contrast to the pale skin. He’s just wearing the socks, no shoes, the weirdness of which escapes Pete. It’s lost in a sea of arousal as Pete’s fingers itch to touch, as his tongue yearns to lick, suck, kiss, as his dick hardens with the want to sink into the tight, wet heat of kiss-swollen lips and a pretty, pink hole fingered open just for Pete.

Time stands still for everyone but them as bunny boy makes his way over to Pete, strolling through and seductively. Dark-rimmed eyes are fixed on Pete, two deep blue lakes surrounded by kohl. It brings out the white glow of his skin, the faint pink of his blushed cheeks and tip of his nose, the only parts of him that betray a certain sense of nervousness. His voice remains firm, still singing, and the shape of his mouth, the sultry undertone in his voice, the way he owns himself turns the simple Happy Birthday song into pure sin.

Before Pete knows it, bunny boy is standing right in front of him, before Pete has time to think, he is balancing the pleasant weight of the stripper on his lap. The guy slings his arms around Pete, his face close enough that Pete can spot some stray freckles, golden lashes, plush lips wetted by the tip of a tempting tongue before the last _happy birthday to you_ is sung by them.

The magic moment gets interrupted by the cheering and laughing of the audience, painful reminder that they are in company. Oh, Pete is going to change that immediately.

“Happy birthday,” bunny boy whispers, voice low enough that only Pete can hear them. These words are only meant for him, just like the expectant smile lighting up the boy’s cherubic face. On instinct, he grabs bunny boy’s hips, hands digging into the tight suit and the delicious softness of the body beneath. _Mine_.

“I’m Patrick, your present, and I have so much more to give to you.” Bunny boy – well, _Patrick_ – bats his painted lashes, the clichés somehow suiting him well. “Why don’t we take it somewhere private, so you can enjoy the rest of your gift properly…?”

Pete is in no position to turn that offer down. He nods, voice lost in anticipation and the anxiety that only nonsense might come over his lips.

 

“I’ll meet you in the bedroom then.” Patrick slides off his lap, and Pete watches him go, the bouncing tail and bunny ears soon lost among the crowd. The spectacle is over, and everyone is back to the regular life of the party. The giant cake is the only sign of what happened, along with the white faux fur stole, looking sad and deflated without its wearer.

A hand on his shoulder makes Pete jump out of his seat.

“You better take that erection outta here, Wentz.” Gabe shakes his head, then pats Pete’s shoulder again. “Lock the door, I’ll make sure to tell everyone not to look for you. Especially not in your bedroom.”

Pete nods, before he remembers he’s capable of words. “Thanks, Gabe. I owe you one.”

Gabe laughs, then gently pushes Pete in the vague direction of the hallway. Pete is sleep-walking through the crowd, bumping against people, uncaring and not paying any attention. He has a tunnel vision for his white rabbit, the white ears, white tail, unexplored naked skin hidden beneath a thin layer of fabric.

 

 

The bedroom is a little further away from the party crowd, voices dulled, music an indistinguishable mush of beats.

The stripper has everything set up. There’s a bottle of lube and a strip of condoms neatly arranged on the otherwise empty nightstand. It’s the one Pete doesn’t use, on the empty side of his too-big bed. Pete doesn’t even know why he owns one nightstand, let alone two; somewhere along the line, someone smarter must’ve come along and decided that a proper adult has to have a nightstand on each side of their bed. Pete pushes that thought aside. Today, there’s someone there to fill the loneliness, today, it’s not just Pete and his never-ending stream of thoughts.

Said someone rolls over on his stomach, all exquisite paleness against the dark red of Pete’s sheets. Somehow, the bunny ears are still sitting atop his golden hair. “Care to join me?” Patrick asks, playfully swinging his legs.

Who would Pete be to object, though he does have a question or two. “How did you know where my bedroom is?”

Patrick smiles sweetly, black-rimmed eyes sparkling with a sense of mischief. “That’s a trade secret.”

Pete sits down, about to unbutton his shirt, stopped by Patrick’s hand. “Want me to do that for you?”

Pete nods, once more devoid of language.

Patrick unbuttons his shirt, slowly, teasingly. Long, deft fingers, they’d look exquisite around Pete’s cock. “What else do you want?” Patrick’s voice is silk against Pete’s neck, the tip of his fingers electric when they brush his naked skin.

“Me?” Patrick whispers when he notices Pete’s inability to answer. “Is that what you want, Pete?”

“How did you know my name?” Pete finally says in between two gasps for air.

“You’re the big birthday boy. The reason I’m here.” The other reasons he’s here – a hefty fee paid with Pete’s credit card, the agency, and Pete’s stupid ideas – remains unmentioned. “But I only know your name, and I’d like to know so much more of you…”

Pete can feel the gears in his brain starting to turn again as his rational side comes back to life. As velvet-smooth as bunny boy’s words are, Pete realizes they’re an elegant cover-up for professional questions. No doubt the agency has told Patrick everything on Pete they had, but there’s still boundaries to negotiate and unknown clients to judge, so Pete plays along.

 

“I want you,” Pete growls, “tell me how much of you I can have.”

Patrick chuckles, but stays true to his role. “You can touch me,” he coos as he takes Pete’s hand, places it on the naked stretch of skin below his clavicle. “Everywhere you want.”

“Sounds good,” Pete mutters, fingers tracing over the small patch of golden hair peeking out just above the tight suit. He can’t quite make out Patrick’s hair color, which seems to be somewhere between copper and dirty-blond; Pete just wonders if the carpet matches the curtains.

“You can kiss me,” Patrick continues, voice low and sultry, sugary-sweet like honey. “Everywhere you want.”

“You sure?” Pete asks back, a hoarse chuckle escaping him as he watches how Patrick undoes the last of his buttons. “Because I wanna kiss you _everywhere_.”

“I’m sure.” Patrick nods firmly, before he throws Pete’s shirt to the ground. “But don’t bite me. I won’t get tied up. No handcuffs. You’re familiar with the other general rules of the agency?”

It’s Pete’s turn to nod; truth is, he can barely think, barely remember anything that came before Patrick emerged from the cake prop. But he knows he doesn’t have any kinky requests, he hasn’t requested anything fetish-specific, he knows about STDs and condoms. There shouldn’t be any problems. It’s too bad he can’t tie Patrick’s hands to his bed frame, too bad he can’t sink his teeth into the tempting curve of his ass until he’s marked up properly, but that’s a price Pete’s more than willing to pay for this adventure.

There are a dozen other ideas swirling in Pete’s mind, and the first one includes pushing Patrick off his lap, onto his back, a pretty pale against the dark sheets. Somehow, the ears are still on, but Pete has no time to notice that when Patrick readily spreads his legs, sends him a sultry look through golden lashes. Fuck, Pete needs to touch, _now_.

The suit is tight, clinging to every delicious curve of flesh. Pete’s hands trail down from the exposed collarbones over the fabric of the bunny costume, down over a soft stomach, then he palms the impressive bulge between the bunny boy’s legs. It earns him a soft sigh as Patrick shifts his hips in search for more, lips parted, blue eyes full of challenge. Pete isn’t sure if Patrick is just feisty, or if it’s all part of the well-calculated act. It doesn’t matter, because whatever it is, it’s fucking working.

Patrick spreads his legs a little wider, knees up and feet planted next to Pete’s thighs. He’s arching up into the touch of Pete’s hands, rubbing against it like a horny teen touched for the first time, his desire now underlined by small moans. It’s melodic like his singing, which is both amusing and strangely hot. Pete’s other hand digs into Patrick’s thighs, feel firm flesh and muscles. The shift of position has revealed the white tail that completes the bunny outfit, making Pete grin as he reaches for it.

 

The tail actually fucking _twitches_ beneath Pete’s hand, and that’s when Pete finally gets it.

 

“That’s a…” Pete doesn’t finish the sentence, just strokes over Patrick’s hardening cock, fast and rough, watches the white tail twitch in response again while Patrick moans loudly.

“Plug. Exactly,” Patrick finishes for him, slightly panting by now, cheeks painted pink by arousal. “If you let me take off the suit, you can see for yourself…”

Fuck. This is unexpected, but not unwelcomed at all. Pete leans back and Patrick sits up, fumbling with a hidden zipper on the right side of his costume. Pete watches, slightly amused and a bit irritated; Patrick seems more interested in getting the suit (which he doesn’t seem to like at all) off his body as fast as possible instead of giving his client the show he’s probably instructed to give. How did this guy get to join a hooker agency?

Such thoughts are discarded as soon as Patrick’s costume is thrown aside, and Pete catches sight of the now naked body in front of him. Just as expected Patrick is all paleness, only disrupted by a dust of dark copper on his chest and crotch and the two pink pebbles of his nipples. And fuck, the kid is hung indeed; uncovered, his dick looks even better, his impressive length blood-red and curving up against his stomach. It makes Pete’s mouth water, makes him want to take every inch of Patrick’s thick cock into his mouth until he chokes on it. He wants to lick, suck, kiss, until the bunny is begging for it.

Patrick is about to get on all fours, only to be stopped by Pete.

“I meant it when I said I want to kiss you everywhere,” Pete growls as he lays down, unbothered by the slight irritation on Patrick’s face. “You’re gonna sit on my face, and while I lick you nice and open, you’ll suck my dick.”

A shadow hushes over Patrick’s narrowed eyes. “You don’t need to,” he says slowly, voice even but not even enough to hide a hint of insecurity. “I’m all prepped and ready. Condoms, and we’re good to go –“

“I want to,” Pete interrupts him, hands already on Patrick’s ass. He’s not pulling, just copping a little feel as he waits for an answer. “Unless…”

Patrick closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, all insecurities and doubts have vanished. “Unless what?” He asks snottily, back to playing the assertive brat. It’s an act Pete could get used to. “You’re not just a tease, right? You’re going to eat my ass?”

“You damn bet I will,” Pete says with a big grin that turns only bigger as he watches Patrick grab two of the condoms, rubber up both their dicks, then climb over Pete to take position. In truth Pete would prefer it the other way around, to tower over Patrick, a firm hand keeping him from thrusting up as Pete sucks his cock, eats his ass, fucks into Patrick’s mouth. He’s sure Patrick would allow it, would _have_ to allow it because it’s not against any of the rules set up. And yet Pete can’t bring himself to ask for it, a strange shyness and the dawn of a guilty conscience keeping his tongue tied. The money he pays can only make up for so much and he’d rather continue to pretend that the callboy is at least somewhat enjoying himself.

 

Pete shakes his head, and forgets about any worries. Instead, he digs his hands into Patrick’s ass cheeks, spreads him open; Pete can see the white fluff and the silicon edge of the plug stretching his rim, just begging to be explored with a tongue. He can feel Patrick’s hand around his cock, a firm grip, real warm fingers that actually belong to another human being. Pete has to admit, it’s been a while.

“Want me to reciprocate the rim job?” Patrick asks, neutral voice and all professionalism.

“No, just focus on my dick,” Pete answers hungrily, hoping this is all the conversation needed because he has a damn fine ass and big, hard cock literally right before his eyes and would rather forgo further words.

There’s no answer from Patrick; instead, there’s a tongue teasing over the head of Pete’s dick, warm and wet, even through the condom. Pete takes that as his sign to stop talking, too. He leans up, tongue trailing over Patrick’s balls. He’ll come back to those, and he’ll come back to Patrick’s cock, too, but for now, he licks over Patrick’s cleft, over his rim, a sense of joy buzzing through him when he hears Patrick moan in appreciation, sees how that bunny tail twitches just a little. Pete reaches for the base, feels the soft fluff of the fake fur, sees how it stretches Patrick open, open, open as he slowly pulls it out, then pushes it back in.

With a muffled yelp, Patrick slumps forward, the grip on Pete’s dick tightening almost painfully. Pete grins to himself, keeps fucking him with the toy for just a little while longer, just enough to make Patrick moan some more and his thighs shake. Finally, Pete pulls the toy out for good, throws it aside, then grabs Patrick’s cheeks again. Patrick’s entrance is wet and pink, slick from spit and the lube he must’ve used to insert the plug, and Pete slides two fingers in with no trouble.

Patrick gasps, the dick of his client sort of forgotten in his fist, lets out another muffled yelp when Pete curls his fingers over his prostate.

“Fuck,” Pete hears him say, “fuck, you got to – do that again, fuck…”

Pete’s both proud and just a tiny bit jealous that bunny boy is getting all this action even though Pete is the birthday boy here. “What? I can’t hear you over the sound of you not sucking my dick,” he growls back, smiling to himself when he hears Patrick scoff a little. He likes the fierceness, likes that Patrick is so much more than meets the eye. Behind his cute, innocent appearance and the adorable bunny ears is a provocative little lion.

 

And _fuck_ , when Patrick starts sucking his cock for real, Pete instantly knows why the agency kept him. Because god damnit, Patrick’s mouth was _made_ for this. A clever tongue lapping at Pete’s balls, deft fingers caressing them as the tongue trails over the shaft, lips wrapped around it tightly, all wet, sinful heat. He takes in every last inch of Pete’s aching length, deepthroats him like there’s no tomorrow and Pete can’t help but cry out. Shit, the callboy is better at his job than he expected.

Despite having two fingers up Patrick’s ass, all Pete can do is hold his breath and desperately hold back his orgasm. Patrick is really fucking good at this, and then he starts making these melodic little moans that sound better than anyone has any right to sound if their mouth is chock full of cock. The vibration travels through Pete’s dick, spread heat up to his groin as the promise of his orgasm dawns in his belly.

Pete is almost sad that he’s missing the view. Patrick has a gorgeous mouth, all plush pink lips that surely look even prettier when wrapped around Pete’s dick. But the sight of Patrick’s ass makes up for it, his wet hole stretched tight around Pete’s fingers, clenching down hard each time Pete rubs over his prostate. He’s started to focus on Patrick again, partially because he doesn’t want to blow his load early, partially because seeing, hearing, feeling him being so aroused turns Pete on in ways he hasn’t anticipated.

One last lap over Patrick’s slick hole, then Pete withdraws his fingers, and pushes Patrick off of him. As enjoyable as it is, Pete’s here for more than just an, admittedly remarkable, blowjob.

 

“On all fours,” Pete growls, watches as the callboy takes position. Somehow, he’s still wearing those damn bunny ears. Pete cups his ass, admires the soft give of the flesh, the sight of a hard cock and a wet hole all ready to be fucked by him. There’s a trail of spit and a bit of leftover lube, and Pete has spent a good amount of time fingering him open even after he took out the plug.

“You need more?” Pete still asks because he doesn’t know the callboy, doesn’t know how he likes it, and Pete _wants_ him to like it. He has had one too many bad encounters, has been in Patrick’s position as well, and these mistakes are not to be repeated.

Patrick looks over his shoulder, narrows his eyes just slightly, like he isn’t sure what to make of Pete’s question. The callboy doesn’t know him either. “I don’t know,” Patrick answers, suddenly all playful coyness, lower lip caught between his teeth.

It’s Pete’s turn to scoff now. “Spare me the virgin act. I know you’ve had plenty experience, certainly enough to know your preferences. I won’t be mad, so don’t lie to me.”

Patrick bites his lip harder, blinks as he looks away. For a moment Pete is afraid he may have gone too far by calling him out and demanding such a personal answer.

Then, Patrick clears his throat, and the pretended coyness is gone. “Three fingers,” he says, now demanding and assertive again, “and more lube. Slick me up, stud,” Patrick coos, voice loaded with the faintest smile like he knows he’s about to tell a lie, “how else can a tiny boy like me take such a big cock like yours?”

Pete is rather sure Patrick is quite experienced with taking cock, and he as well as everyone with internet access knows he’s pretty averagely sized. Unlike the callboy, who is several inches smaller save for his dick, which is of a much more impressive size than Pete’s, making the lie sound even more like mockery. “Liked it better when you used your mouth for sucking cock,” Pete grumbles as he reaches for the lube; he doesn’t mean to insult the callboy, but he also doesn’t want his own intelligence insulted by some stupid stale whore act that none of them is taking too seriously anyway.

Whatever. Pete bites the inside of his cheeks as he pours more lube over his fingers. He’s going to fuck him hard, he’ll make Patrick come on his dick and fuck him through every second of his orgasm until he’s thoroughly satisfied. Yes, yes, that is a good thought, although Pete doesn’t know when this suddenly became about pleasing some goddamn callboy instead of _himself_ , the birthday client. But with his hard, lubed up cock in his hand and a willing body right in front of him, Pete doesn’t care for the fine print of his psyche.

He slips two fingers back into Patrick, thumb gliding over his rim, his other hand reaching for Patrick’s cock. It’s still rubbered up, and yet to be explored with a tongue; Pete tries to recall how long the callboy will stay, wonders if they can shove in a nice blowjob before their bought time comes to an end. One step at a time. Pete’s hand trails back, over the base, his balls, comes to a rest on the small of Patrick’s back.

A third finger enters Patrick, who gasps at the sensation, reddened lips parted, big blue eyes fixed on Pete. Patrick is going for more moans, undoubtedly sensing that his client prefers sweet sounds over sweet words or ridiculous porn dialog.

“Enough?” Pete inquires. He has three digits buried inside Patrick, and used a generous amount of lube, so he trusts the lascivious wink and nod from the callboy.

“Fuck me,” Patrick whispers nonetheless, voice dark with passion, the obscenities somehow twisted into sounding like pure poetry when spoken by his talented tongue. “C’mon, I’m so ready for you…”

 

Pete puts his hands on Patrick’s cheeks, tan fingers splayed over pale flesh, spreading him open for Pete to watch as he slowly pushes in. Fuck, and the noise Patrick makes – fake or not, Pete doesn’t care, it sounds too fucking delicious either way. Like he’s singing, a dirty symphony just for Pete, a private little concert only for the intimate audience of one.

Once he’s bottomed out, Pete grabs Patrick’s hips, watches the curve of his shoulders rise and fall as the callboy breathes shallowly against the pillow. After a few moments, the tension vanishes from Patrick’s body, and Pete starts moving, slowly. Patrick moans, pushes back against his cock, no doubt expecting the usual jackrabbit sex, being pounded into the mattress without finesse.

Instead, Pete leans forward, slings an arm around Patrick’s chest, and pulls him up. He gets a surprised noise as Patrick turns his head to him, curiosity and the faintest hint of a smile on his face. His eyeliner is smudged, no doubt staining Pete’s expensive sheets, the bunny ears still perched on top of his slightly ruffled golden hair. Pete can’t help but grin back, before pressing their lips together for a deep kiss.

Patrick arches his back, hand reaching up to twist into Pete’s hair. Bold move for a callboy, either Patrick is very stupid, or he somehow knows Pete’s into it without words. Maybe he can just read people’s kinks, maybe that is – or _becomes_ – part of the job.

 

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Patrick’s mouth isn’t only amazing at sucking dick, he’s also a fairly good kisser. When they break apart Patrick is panting, all blushed cheeks and black-rimmed blue eyes, little whines ghosting over Pete’s heated face. After Pete’s sharp words the callboy stopped talking, but damnit if the silence isn’t even more enticing because it’s filled with rapid breath, the sound of two bodies colliding, and the delirious throaty groan when Pete angles his thrusts just right, finally hits Patrick’s prostate.

Pete reaches around for Patrick’s cock, still in the condom. “Off?” He asks, and Patrick groans a “fuck, yes, off – _now_ ,” in response. The condom is thrown aside (probably further staining Pete’s _really_ expensive sheets) and then Pete’s fingers meet the raw heat of the callboy’s aching cock, crown slick with precum already. Patrick turns his head, tugs at Pete’s hair as they kiss again. Patrick moans into Pete’s mouth, fucks harder into Pete’s hand, taking more control over the pace. Pete lets him, too turned on by the devious kisses and musical moans, too entranced by Patrick’s ass pressing against his groin, and too aroused by the well-timed thrust, how Patrick tightens around him, the way he lets Pete _feel_ their shared arousal with every sense possible.

 

 

 

“Can I – fuck, tell me that I can come,” Patrick asks, raw voice and raw desire, his dick leaking over Pete’s hand. “And _now_ , please, I – you wouldn’t dare to just tease the poor little escort, would you?”

In the dawn of his orgasm, Patrick has to be a fucking pro to keep up the bitchy act. Or maybe he has really forgotten the callboy mannerisms, and he’s just a naturally stubborn, bossy asshole. Both is fine with Pete.

“You’ll come _now_ ,” Pete groans in response as he starts to jerk Patrick off even faster, his other hand tightening its grip on the soft flesh of Patrick’s hip.

Patrick actually _laughs_ , he has the fucking _audacity_ for a smug small giggle against Pete’s neck, and it’s both infuriating and insanely hot in its defiance and the way it makes Patrick tighten even further around Pete’s cock at each throaty chuckle. Pete catches his lower lip between his teeth, gives a warning little bite that Patrick pays no attention to. Another well-timed flicker of Pete’s wrist, another thrust of his hips, and the laugh stops, replaced by a short-breathed staccato of moans, each a precious note, until the final throaty whine as Patrick comes, writhing under Pete’s touch, spilling all over his hand, clenching down on his cock tight, tight, tighter until Pete just loses it, comes with Patrick as he fucks them both through the aftershock, each wave of shared pleasure almost too much to take.

For a moment, hard breathing and the faint sound of the party outside is all that is heard. “Pull out,” Patrick whispers eventually, no doubt worried about condoms on softening cocks. Pete does as he’s told, pries the condom off his dick, throws it next to the remaining condoms and lube on the nightstand – hey, he pays the stripper to deal with these, doesn’t he?

Said stripper groans as he stretches his limbs, then he gets out of bed, collects the used condom and his belongings from the floor, walks over to the bathroom. Pete watches his hips swing, notices that he’s still in his socks, and still wearing the damn bunny ears perched on his head. The water runs for a while, a quiet mumble mixing with the distant sound of people enjoying themselves somewhere away from Pete, drinking, laughing, dancing. Usually Pete would be green with envy, but the sex with Patrick was good enough to dull that out; all he wishes for now is to curl up with him, and fall asleep pressed against the warmth of another body.

 

Fuck, getting old is really sad and boring. This new dumb longing for domesticity is worrying.  

 

Before Pete’s brain can get caught in another downwards spiral of troublesome thoughts, Patrick comes back into the bedroom, all cleaned up and put together again. He places the (now cleaned) plug with to his other supplies and puts his neatly folded bunny suit next to it. When he reaches for the bunny ears, Pete shakes his head. “Leave them on,” he says with a yawn, “they look cute.”

Patrick looks slightly annoyed, but does as he is told. He heads back to the bathroom, emerges with a wet washcloth in his hand. Pete lets the callboy clean him, the slight irony of the situation bringing a grin to his face that earns him an eye-roll from Patrick. Riling Patrick up is fun, Pete could get used to it.

Which is probably not a good thought. There shouldn’t be anything to get used to with a one-time fling with a stripper for his birthday.

 

Patrick lies down next to him on his stomach, head turned to Pete. His makeup is still smudged, hair a mess under the bunny ears, the smile too presumptuous for the stripper bunny act. He swings his legs, his little feet still in the white socks held up by the black garters, drums a silent beat into the mattress with his fingers. He’s so goddamn infuriating and so fucking cute, it makes Pete’s stomach flip.

“Round two?” Patrick sing-songs, flutters his lashes.

 

Pete opens his mouth; he wants to tell Patrick about his sobriety, about how he hasn’t gotten laid in ages, about being twenty-nine and worn out and too tired after the party life of his past years, about not being able to get it up a second time because he feels old, tired, drained, his meds a constant bother with his potency even on a good day anyway, about how, for once in a long time, he just feels comfortable and sated and the closest to happy he’s felt in ages.

Pete doesn’t tell Patrick any of that.

 

“Tomorrow,” is all he grumbles instead, reaching out for Patrick to place a tentative hand on the small of his back. Pete’s a cuddler, always has been, and the thought of Patrick’s soft, small body in his arms is too enticing. He’s not going to force it, but intends to make clear what he wants.

Patrick raises his brows, slightly shakes his head, enough to make the ears flop a little. “You surprise me,” he says amused, and Pete isn’t quite sure if that’s a good thing or not. It ceases to matter when Patrick laughs his smug throaty laugh again as he rolls over and places his head on Pete’s naked chest. Pete slings an arm around him, feels the warmth of naked skin, the tickle of Patrick’s hair, the draught of his now relaxed breath.

There’s so much Pete wants to say, so much he wants to ask. “Why the fuck are you just wearing socks,” is all he can bring himself to say.

“Had a pair of shoes provided by the agency, but…” Patrick shrugs his shoulders as he looks up to Pete, all smudged kohl and pure provocation. “Couldn’t walk in the stripper heels, and decided I’d rather risk a rebuke than breaking my neck.”

Against his will, Pete laughs, ugly and dark; Patrick seems neither bothered by the sound of it nor the way it makes his head bounce on Pete’s chest.

“You’re pretty shitty at your job,” Pete chuckles, half-lying and only semi-serious.

“Your dick says otherwise,” Patrick retorts lazily, clearly not taking Pete’s harsh words to heart. They fall silent, Pete’s arms curled around his bunny boy, watching him trail the tattoo on his groin with careful fingers.

Somewhere else, people are still celebrating, toasting to the absent birthday boy, but in the few delirious moments before he falls asleep, Pete thinks of himself as a happy man already.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, and a little insight into Patrick's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, folks! I know it's not Monday but I admit, Saturday just works better for me. Chapter 2 for the lovely Snitches, who's always a great friend and positive force in this fandom!
> 
> Thanks to Semi and Laudanum for beta'ing!~
> 
> Please note that I can't speak Spanish, and relied on Google. It assured me that pastelito means "small pie" or "cake", but if it's totally wrong or anything please let me know so I can correct my mistakes. 
> 
> As always, all artwork done by me. Enjoy!

 

 

There had been a time when Patrick had enjoyed long sleeps, where it would have been impossible to get him out of bed before noon.

Those times have been over ever since Patrick started sharing a bed with strangers; a luxury he no longer can afford both for job and for security reasons.

Now he wakes up early, and to his relief, to the sight of a sleeping client. Patrick prefers to have a few more minutes to himself, so he wriggles himself out of the arm and leg thrown over his frame as carefully as possible; with success. Patrick has experience in many fields these days.

Birthday guy just lets out a small groan and turns around, limbs now sprawled over the bed and the pillow. _Pete_ is his name, Patrick knows – his memory is another thing that has changed, from remembering song titles and chords to stranger’s names – but he doesn’t much like to refer to his clients by name. It makes them too human, it’s too personal. If possible, he avoids it, even though most clients just fucking _love_ to hear their name coming from his lips when they’re fucking him. The human species is surprisingly equal in their lack of imagination during sex. Calling him Birthday guy is easy, unimaginative, and impersonal; it’ll do just fine.  

 

There was a time where Patrick would have wondered why someone like this dude sleeping next to him was hiring a sex worker. He is slim and pretty, all tan skin and enticingly bad tattoos, long hair swept into the scene bangs that he really is a little too old for, a smile and a personality that Patrick just knows will always easily capture the attention of a crowd, dominate the room, charm the pants off a lot of people without money.

Now, Patrick doesn’t care anymore. Whatever the answer, it doesn’t concern him; whatever the answer, it’ll either disappoint or disgust him. Possibly both.

 

There was a time when Patrick wondered how and why someone like him would have a chance as an escort. Patrick knows he’s small, the last hint of puppy fat still clinging to his stomach and thighs, thin hair and almost no beard growth besides the little sideburns, topped off with what he considers an average face and a badly-hidden terrible temper. He’s not exactly a supermodel or gym rat and looks like he’s stuck at age 17 rather than being 23 already.

Now, Patrick knows he is exactly what some customers are looking for. Not many, but still enough for him to pay his rent.

Patrick wishes he didn’t know.

It is exactly that appeal of a jailbait – a word Patrick grew to hate, hate, _hate_ – that people search for. The looks of just the average little high schooler, of that one teenage summer fling his clients had (or wish they had had back then), the illusion of not having paid money for some groomed professional but just having picked off this cute guy from the streets, the local park, the yearbook club, Church Youth Group, or anywhere his clients wish him to be from.

He doesn’t know what’s worse, the guys that flip him on all fours and pretend – make _him_ pretend – he is an underage, clueless little virgin, or the lonely, lovesick ones that press sloppy kisses to his face and tell them their whole life story that Patrick couldn’t care less about, pretend – make _him_ pretend – he is their actual average cute little boyfriend.

Patrick hates them both.

But what he doesn’t hate is their much-needed money. And Patrick reminds himself he is still on duty.

 

The bunny ears are discarded on the pillows, still intact. Patrick grabs them, intending to put them on later. He hates these dumb things, they look ridiculous and humiliating, but hey, the Birthday guy paid for it so it’s not like Patrick has much of a choice. It’s been a while since Patrick had much of a choice in _anything_.  

The floor is cold under his feet as he heads over to his bag, placed discreetly in the corner. There’s a change of clothes inside, tight pair of pants and dress shirt, the usual work clothes. But after yesterday’s bunny suit, Patrick doesn’t feel like wearing a costume right now. He just grabs a fresh pair of underwear, wonders if he should get rid of the socks. Birthday guy seemed to like them, so Patrick makes a mental note to put them on after the shower, hopes Pete won’t complain to the agency about his lack of shoes. There is just no way Patrick could walk on the ridiculous 4-inch stripper heels that the agency provided him with for the playboy bunny look.

Clients like this one would probably appreciate Patrick in one of their own, worn-out pajama shirts. A faded AC/DC shirt and loose shorts, one of the Metallica hoodies that’s laying around on the floor (which seems to be used as the closet). Patrick briefly considers trying it out, he knows he has a pretty good instinct on what the customers like, but then doesn’t. He has been forced into enough clothes already.

With a last glance to the bed, Patrick makes sure the man on the bed is still asleep, then shuts the bathroom door behind him; a little privacy at last.

There’s a faintly aching soreness between his legs, at the back of his throat, and Patrick groans a little as he sits on the edge of the bathtub to gather himself. Sure, he’s had plenty of experience but he hasn’t had a client – and therefore, hasn’t had sex – in the last two weeks, his private parts are freshly waxed (as demanded by the agency, who already generously lets him keep the sparse chest and facial hair as long as no client complains again), has been wearing a goddamn big plug for hours and then got fucked roughly. Prep or not, he can’t deny the effects it all has on his body, and hopes the next round of fucking won’t last as long this time.

He takes a quick shower, but lets the water run afterwards as he grabs his phone. Background noise, so his clients won’t know what he is doing, to maintain the perfect illusion. He has two checkup calls to make.

First one goes to the agency, routine procedure to confirm everything is alright. Patrick keeps it short, because there’s nothing much to say; everything went fine.

Second one goes to William, his roommate, friend, and fellow aspiring artist who came to LA with big plans and even bigger dreams, and way too little money.

“I’m good,” Patrick repeats for the third time, voice hushed even over the sound of the running shower. “I’ve been at this for over a year now, Will. Drop the mom act, I can handle myself. The guy was harmless.”

“You know I don’t like it when they make you stay overnight,” William replies sourly, and Patrick can picture him on the other side of the line, cracked phone screen pressed to his ear, face scrunched with worries. “And those… _Extra wishes_ you mentioned, did that go well?”

Patrick sighs, phone in one hand, as he tries to smoothen his damp hair in the mirror. It doesn’t work out too well. Maybe if he just wears the bunny ears again, Pete won’t notice. “He just wanted me to dress up and dance a little. That’s all.”

William makes a grumbling sound that conveys disapproval that he’s too tired of putting into cohesive arguments anymore.  “Call me when the cab picks you up,” he says instead, then hesitantly bids his goodbye.

Patrick puts the phone away; there’s no one left to call anyway. He turns off the shower, and reaches for his clothes – well, the sparse ensemble he has. Underwear, socks, and a stupid pair of bunny ears. Yesterday’s makeup has been washed away in the shower, so Patrick ducks back into the bedroom to grab the eyeliner pencil from his bag. Yet another thing that (in his humble opinion) looks utterly ridiculous, especially in the light of day, which is why Patrick goes easy with the black kohl. Just a little smudge, to make it look like he woke up with yesterday’s makeup still perfectly applied. Birthday boy will buy it. They _always_ buy it.  

Unsatisfied with the phone call with Will but satisfied with his appearance in the mirror, Patrick exits the bathroom – time for work.   

 

Patrick knows what to do next, the agency has made sure to teach him how to take care of their well-paying customers and what protocol there is to follow. Birthday guy wanted a special treat, but he also wants cuteness and care. Breakfast in bed, that’s what clients like him love, so Patrick has been taught to perform. The ones who like to pretend they hired a boyfriend, an equal, as if money and professionalism wasn’t an insuperable barrier between them, they love shit like that. The agency _loves_ the good reputation and reviews and especially money that it makes them. And Patrick _needs_ the money these cheap tricks bring him.

Whatever. Patrick is paid to maintain illusions, not to destroy them.

Not too long ago, Patrick would’ve been ashamed to be seen like that, just socks and underwear, topped off with the costume-y bunny ears. If his work as an escort has any advantages, it’s his immense gain of confidence in his appearance. (Well, Patrick isn’t quite sure if it is confidence or if he simply ran out of fucks to give, but he’s not questioning it.) Now, he barely spares a second thought to it as he wanders through the house, looking for the kitchen.

It is unusually quiet, less messy than expected, and all in all – there is just no glamor. Irritated, Patrick notices a lack of destruction, there’s no hangover people sleeping everywhere, no sign of hard drugs, hard sex, the glitz and glam of the upper society with too much money and too much boredom. On first glance, it doesn’t seem befitting at all, Patrick would’ve taken him for a big party boy who spends his birthday party high out of his mind for three days straight.

The little pieces start to add up, crushing the first impression Patrick had of his client. He doesn’t like to be wrong about clients, not at all, but at least in this case, it seems that Birthday guy is just more harmless than he assumed.

No big party. No visible drugs. No big press, no red carpet, no scandal. Patrick hasn’t seen his client drinking either (the agency and experience taught him to keep track of consumption of any sort of mind-altering substances), hasn’t smelled or tasted any alcohol on him, and who doesn’t raise a glass to their own birthday?

Finally, Patrick finds the kitchen again, and miraculously finds his already half-forgotten faux fur stole thrown over a chair. No stains and no weird smell, so Patrick droops it over his naked, shivering shoulders, trying again not to feel ridiculous. It helps with the coldness, and Birthday guy will like it, will love to see it slide off his shoulders, hungry eyes fixed on Patrick as he undressed for him like yesterday evening. They always like it.

Discarding these thoughts, Patrick takes a look into the fridge. Unsurprisingly, it’s pretty empty, it’s content being mostly condiments, some weird health shakes, takeout boxes shoved in the back, and an array of different bottled water. No normal bachelor has three different kinds of bottled water and no alcohol in their fridge. Not that Patrick misses it, he usually doesn’t drink during a job and he prefers his clients not to be drunk either, but the effects of a glass of champagne might’ve spared him a few minutes of fucking, would’ve been just enough to let Birthday guy see everything in a golden glow of buzzed satisfaction. Patrick clicks his tongue in disapproval, takes two bottles of Evian, and closes the door of the fridge with a precise little nudge of his hips. The glass bottles feel smooth and cold in his hands. Why the fuck is it necessary to import fancy French water?!

 

“Slept well, pastelito?”

 

The unexpected question almost causes Patrick to drop the water. He turns around, alarmed, to find himself confronted with a tall, dark-haired guy with a bright grin, and bright neon clothes that look like he slept in them. Seems like not all the guests left the building.

“Slept well, thanks,” Patrick answers cautiously as his mind races. He recognizes the man, he was the one standing behind Birthday guy yesterday as Patrick gave his little show, but that’s all Patrick knows about him. He does not like unknown company near him when he’s working, especially not someone like this man who looks like he could easily overpower Patrick with one hand behind his back. Patrick’s grip around the water bottle tightens. It’s glass, he could smash it and use it as a weapon, or at least that’s his – admittedly, sort of weak – plan.

“Yo, no need to be worried,” the man says, no doubt sensing Patrick’s hostility and how he took a small step back. “I’m Gabe, Pete’s friend, and I respect sex workers.”

“Really,” Patrick says, not very convinced.

“Believe me, I was taught a very good lesson by a very nice, very menacing bouncer in a strip club once. Talked some sense into me, and his muscles said the rest.” Gabe clears his throat. “I’m just here to make sure Pete’s alright.”

That is even more irritating. Why the fuck would someone need to check on _Birthday Guy_? He hasn’t gotten drunk or high, hasn’t asked for anything dangerous like asphyxiation. Is that Gabe guy worried that the dirty escort killed his friend?

“Last time I checked, he was fine. Still asleep. Wanted to get him some breakfast in bed.” Patrick hesitates. “You’re not… _Joining_ us, are you? The agency did not mention a threesome –“

“Fuck, no.” Gabe holds up his hands in defense. “Told you, just wanted to make sure Pete is alright. He didn’t drink or did any pills, did he? He didn’t do anything… funny?”

“No.” Patrick shakes his head, mind still racing before it hits him. The absent alcohol, the weird questions, the concerned friends, the three kinds of expensive bottled water… finally, it clicks. “Wait. He’s sober, right?” It’s less a question and more of a statement.

 

Gabe nods anyway, grins with pride as he runs his hand through sleep-tousled curly hair. “Has been so for over a year now. I’m so fucking proud of him. But…” He leans forward a little, lowers his voice. “The fear lingers, you know? I just wanted to make sure he’s alright, it’s been a rough time for him lately and I don’t want him to have a relapse.”

Hearing this, Patrick relaxes enough to put the water bottles on the counter, and continue his search for food. Gabe seems like an okay guy, not a threat at least and, well, Patrick knows that if Gabe had been up to something bad, he would have done it by now. He still wraps the faux fur stole closer to himself, as if that could protect him somehow.

“He’s fine,” Patrick repeats as he rummages through the – mostly empty, fucking surprise – cupboards. “No relapses, no nothing.”

He hears Gabe sigh in relief. “So glad to hear that. Hey, wait. Do you know who Pete is?”

Oh, for Christ’s sake. Patrick grits his teeth, he fucking hates these pointless conversations, the bragging, the snobbism. Why the fuck would he care who this _Pete_ is? The guy sure doesn’t care who Patrick is either. All Patrick knows is that he is a client with money who wants Patrick to pretend to be his teenage playboy fap fantasy for an evening. Patrick doesn’t give a shit if he works on solving world hunger or got a dozen expensive cars in his garage or any other bullshit his clients love to tell him about themselves.

“He’s a good lay, that’s for sure,” Patrick answers evasively. That is the least offensive compliment he can make, and he sure as hell isn’t going to admit he has no clue and no interest about who his client is.

Thankfully, Gabe swallows it, laughs loud and heartily, seems oddly relieved. Whatever, at least the annoying personal questions stop. “When will you be gone, pastelito?”

“I’m paid to stay until noon.” Patrick doesn’t ask what’s with the nickname. At least it’s better than _slut, whore_ , or _hooker_ . Which Patrick is _not_ , okay, he’s not a _slut_ or _whore_ , he is paid for sex, he is working, earning earnest money and even fucking paying taxes, all legit. And he isn’t a goddamn _hooker_ , he isn’t some junkie from the streets or pitiful little broken boy, he is working as an _escort_ in an escort agency, all fair and dandy. Just a normal job, just to earn some money until his music career takes off and pays more than a few crumbled bills and free pizza.

When Gabe stays silent Patrick hopes that’s it, he is neither interested in any more of his client’s life nor does he want Gabe to linger any longer, get any ideas. There is no big, menacing bouncer guy here right now to teach him another lesson. He continues to rummage through the kitchen, hoping that Birthday guy’s weird friend gets the hint. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t.  

“Forget it. You’re never going to find any food in there.” Gabe states what Patrick already suspected before he even set foot in the kitchen. Damnit.

“How about coffee?” Patrick asks, looking around for any sort of device that can make said beverage. He sees nothing except a grinning Gabe.

“Pete only drinks that sugary shit from Starbucks.”

Of fucking course.

Patrick bites his lip, then turns to the other man. “Hey, is there any actual birthday cake left?”

 

 

Armed with two plates of cake and two bottles of French water, Patrick heads back to the bedroom. The dull _tap tap tap_ of his sock-clad feet is the only thing he can hear in the house. At least that Gabe dude didn’t follow him, he actually took off without even so much as trying something funny. Still, the tension only fully vanishes once Patrick has shut the bedroom door behind him with a nudge of his hips, and sees only Birthday guy on the bed. He hopes it stays that way.

With a sigh, Patrick places the two plates of cake on the empty nightstand, takes a sip of water from one of the bottles. He’s hungry, and the cake looks delicious, layers and layers of cream, jam, and sponge cake topped off with more cream, strawberries, and a generous amount of edible golden glitter. A fairly odd choice of a birthday cake, especially the childish glitter, but who is Patrick to complain?

 

“Morning, bunny boy.”

For the second time today, Patrick is surprised by a rather terrible way of saying good morning. Too preoccupied with the cake, he must’ve failed to notice that his client is already awake, laying on his side, head propped up on his hand as he eyes Patrick with a grin. Damnit.

“I have a name,” Patrick says miffed, which maybe isn’t the smartest thing to say but he’s too surprised to fall back on the polite phrases. Birthday guy just laughs, clearly not bothered.

“They all call you Patrick,” he says with not enough nonchalance to hide just the tiniest bit of jealousy that manages to shine through, “I wanna call you something special. Trick? Tricky? Trickster?”

“No,” Patrick says firmly, because no nicknames on the job, it’s bad enough he’s using his real first name already. No need to give his clients even more of himself. “Just Patrick, please.”

“Fine,” Birthday guy growls, more concerned with sitting up to bury his nose in Patrick’s neck, hand gripping his thigh, and Patrick hopes this is the end of the discussion.

Once more, his hopes were foolish.

“Rabbit.” Birthday guy sits up again, looks at Patrick with his head cocked to the side. “So that we match. Get it? Me, Peter, and you, Rabbit, like Peter Rabbit from the books!”

Patrick has a thing or two to say about bringing a children’s book series into this, but keeps his mouth shut before Pete can come up with an even worse nickname. Yes, it could be worse, Patrick reminds himself, it could be _slut_ or _whore_ or _hooker_ , it could be _fuck toy, little bitch, you stupid faggot._

Really, Rabbit isn’t so bad.

And really, a personalized pet name is nothing to worry about. Right?  

Patrick considers it best to change the subject, and to not tell his client he won’t be participating in giving each other cute nicknames. Pete is just a number, just the cash he pays, just a job to get done. Just the Birthday guy. Easy, unimaginative, impersonal. Just no one. Like Patrick.

 

“There was a strange man in your living room,” Patrick mutters, “said his name was Gabe. He left, but he won’t come back for any… Surprises, right? I haven’t been told about a third person involved.” No way Patrick will put himself in danger or get scammed out of money.

“Gabe’s a good guy,” Pete whispers against Patrick’s neck, “and don’t worry. I have no intention of sharing you, Rabbit.”

With that, Patrick reaches for one of the plates, ready to play his role again, ready to take the wheel and not let his client irritate him further with weird pet names or, God beware, any sob stories about his life. “We should eat,” he suggests with a devilish grin as he scoops up a generous amount of cream and cake with the fork. “You missed your cake yesterday – wouldn’t you like to try some now?”

Birthday guy nods, eagerly and willingly. He thinks he gets it, opens his mouth in anticipation of being fed, but Patrick is one step ahead. One, two, three bites actually land in his client’s mouth, then, Patrick fakes a noise of surprise (he’s gotten very good at faking emotions), drops a big load of cream-and-jam covered cake over his chest.

“Oh no,” Patrick sing-songs, pretending to be embarrassed, “I made a mess…” He wipes some of the cream away with his index finger – not without rubbing it down a little further, covering one pink nipple in white, moaning just a little – then licks it away, seemingly unintentionally salacious. That’s what clients love, the cute guy unaware of his sex appeal, the innocent boy who likes to play with fire, provides a challenge and what the agency calls _a sassy mouth_ (another word Patrick grew to hate). They all love it.

Birthday guy is no exception. He stares at Patrick with wide eyes half-hidden under his outdated black scene bangs, and he’s totally into it, or so the growing erection between his legs says. He reaches for the plate in Patrick’s hand, and slowly, slowly pushes it until the rest of the cake spills over Patrick’s body.

“Oh no,” Birthday guy says, not even pretending to be anything but predatory, “I made a mess…”

Now _this_ is something Patrick can handle. The empty plate is put back on the nightstand. Patrick leans back, draping the faux fur stole over himself in a way that reveals more than it hides, promising more by giving a glimpse into the goods already. He bats his kohl-smeared lashes at his client, the black makeup underlining the blue of his eyes, the ivory of his skin, the darkness in his smile when Patrick speaks up. “Come and clean me up then, stud.”

 

Birthday guy doesn’t have to be asked twice.

 

Just a moment later he’s all over Patrick, presses him into the pillows as he shuffles between his pale legs; he leans over Patrick, presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his collar bone, then begins licking over the sweet ruins of his birthday cake on his birthday present. A rough tongue meets soft flesh, gently but hungrily sucks on saccharine skin and salty beads of sweat. It still leaves Patrick a mess, leaves him topped with smudges of bright white and dark red, saliva and the ridiculous edible glitter sparkling when it catches the light just right. When the eager mouth has worked its way down to Patrick’s crotch, Patrick moans with a cautious warning hidden in if, eternally relieved when his client sits up. He wouldn’t have been the first one trying to trick his way out of the condoms.

Birthday guy towers over him, eyes still hungry for more than just cake as they keep staring at the pretty mess underneath him. He pushes the stole aside like he’s unwrapping a gift, the faux fur tickling Patrick’s skin. Firm hands on Patrick’s thighs nudge them apart, push them up until everything between them is revealed. With surprise, Patrick notices that it doesn’t get him the reaction he was hoping for. Why is there a soft frown and furrowed brows instead of lust-filled gazes?

“Are you sore?”

The question throws Patrick off, especially the concern behind it. Most of his customers (if they notice at all) would be happy. They would be _proud_ to have fucked him until he can’t walk. They _love_ to leave him red and raw and aching from their hard cocks and too-hard thrusts.

“I’m good,” Patrick answers slightly irritated. Sure, wearing a plug for hours, followed by having his ass eaten, getting fingered and an extensive round of rough fucking leaves its traces even on him. But Patrick is okay, he’s had much worse, and he doesn’t want some client’s pity. He doesn’t want to be so exposed, as if being naked and spread open on a stranger’s bed wasn’t revealing himself enough. What Patrick wants is for his client to just shut the hell up and fuck him. Feigning concern still doesn’t change anything.

“Come on, stud,” Patrick sing-songs as he sends Birthday guy a coquettish look. He’s already learned that his client likes it, likes the challenge; he wants Patrick willing, but not subdued. It’s a fine line to walk, one Patrick hopes he won’t misjudge. “Don’t you want to try making me sore for real? Fuck me till I can’t sit for days…?”

The less than enthusiastic sigh he gets in reply tells Patrick his offer is not appreciated. Birthday guy leans forward and for a moment, everything in Patrick tenses up. That’s what he hates about new clients, the uncertainty, these little moments of fear that everything could go south.

Thankfully, it doesn’t.

Birthday guy at least complies to one half of Patrick’s unsaid wishes; he stays silent, stops with the question and annoying worried looks. Instead, his mouth finds the curve of Patrick’s neck, presses slow, sensual kisses to sensitive skin. He trails up to nuzzle his nose into the small sideburns, then his lips meet Patrick’s for kisses a hint too desperate, a bit too desirous to be reserved for escorts. Patrick still kisses back, although he is relieved when the kiss is broken in favor of trailing down his throat, collarbone, chest. Reciprocating kisses is not Patrick’s favorite part of the job, no matter who hires him. There’s just something a little too personal, too possessive about it.

The hand on his dick stops Patrick’s thoughts. It’s slow and passionate, Birthday guy really wants him to get hard. Well, given the effort the poor dude is putting into it, Patrick moans generously in return, bucks his hips to fuck harder into the warm hand until they’ve worked out a nice, steady rhythm. Birthday guy is a fast learner and Patrick a master manipulator when it comes to nudging his clients in the right direction to his orgasm. It’s clear that’s what is wanted from him sooner or later, just like yesterday. It hasn’t been demanded out loud, but Patrick is not willing to find out what happens if he doesn’t come.

“I’m gonna blow you now,” Birthday guy says in a low voice, dripping with dark desire. He sits up, throws Patrick one of the condoms. No lube. Patrick hopes that means his hands stay away from his ass, because if there is one thing he doesn’t need right now it’s unlubricated fingers – or dicks – inside of him. Sure, he can take it, Patrick has learned to take a lot of (unlubricated) things, but that doesn’t mean he necessarily _wants_ to.

Pushing these worries aside, Patrick rolls the condom over his dick, gives himself a few pumps to make sure it sits right, and to give his client a little tease. He’s paid to _give_ a good time, not to have one himself. Patrick knows he looks good, just the right amount of undone, hair disheveled, makeup smudged, cock hard and ready, skin glistening with sweat and spit and the leftover golden cake glitter. And Patrick knows his client thinks the same, with the way he stares at Patrick like he’s the prettiest thing ever, brown eyes full of lust and adoration before they’re hidden behind the black bangs again when he bows his head to press a kiss to Patrick’s stomach. Despite the sweetness of the gesture, it leaves a sour taste in Patrick’s mouth.

There’s no time to think about it (and really, no reason to) because there’s a hand around Patrick’s cock and then there’s a hot, wet tongue pressing against the sensitive spot just beneath his balls, unexpected yet arousing. Patrick gasps, then gasps again when the tongue trails up, when gentle yet firm fingers tease his balls, caress wrinkled skin, find every nerve-ending aching to be touched.

 

And fuck, Birthday guy wasn’t joking when he said he wanted to blow Patrick. He’s not a professional but what he lacks in expert techniques, he makes up for in enthusiasm. He laps at Patrick’s cock like it’s covered in sugar instead of the chemical taste of latex, swallows him down like it’s his actual birthday cake. He’s got a nice mouth and tongue, with a bit too much spit, but it’s _big_ and warm and fairly decent at sucking cock, so that Patrick doesn’t even have to fake all his enthusiasm. It’s not often he gets blown, even rarer that a blowjob is just… that. Not him being used, or his client wanting to be humiliated by sucking the escort’s dick.

“Keep it up and I’m gonna come,” Patrick groans, a playful warning that goes unheard. Birthday guy doesn’t stop, keeps going with even more determination, eyes expectantly fixed on Patrick. One hand is caressing Patrick’s balls, stroking his cock, tongue pressed against his aching length, the other hand busy with jerking himself off. Patrick keeps his above his head, twisted into the sheets, because he hasn’t been told otherwise.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come, Pete!” Patrick’s voice is a sultry moan, Pete’s name wrapped into it like a precious promise, a dirty, debauched gift, shared secret just between them. Orgasm close or not, Patrick still knows what’s good for business. He experimentally tries to buck his hips, fuck harder into the hot mouth, but unlike yesterday, his client doesn’t seem to be into the escort setting the pace here. A firm hand pressing his hips back into the mattress lets Patrick stop.

Patrick is breathing heavily, trying to shove aside his almost-orgasm for rational thoughts and customer service. A frustrated groan escapes his lips when Pete withdraws; then, Patrick feels his legs being pushed up, pressed together, until his knees meet his chest.

 

“Fuck, little Rabbit, you’re so fucking _hot_ ,” Birthday guy groans, and he’s still hard, his erection pressing against Patrick’s thighs when he leans forward, smearing precum over it.

“Condom,” is all Patrick manages to answer, cold fear replacing the heat of his arousal because fuck, fuck, he can’t let this asshole try to trick – try to _force_ – to shove his dick anywhere near him without protection. Patrick can’t deal with the panic again, he can’t let Will worry again either.

The fucking _thankfulness_ he feels when his client sits up and grabs a condom without complaining is sickening and outrageous, but Patrick tries to ignore it. Better than a fight. Better than having to sit in the sterile clinic again, shaking as Will holds his hand, hoping fate has mercy on him. As much as the fancy agency screens its customers, no matter the medical equipment they provide, in the end, there’s only so much protection they can do.

The dick is back against his thighs, condom-clad and wanting. “Stay like that,” Patrick is told, so he does, on his back with his knees pressed against his chest, hoping to God that Birthday guy doesn’t intend to go in dry and without prep.

Birthday guy does no such thing.

No, he slips his cock between Patrick’s thighs, and Patrick feels his face heating up, mouth opening to say something, anything, a witty remark, seductive begging; instead, a wanton moan slips out. It only furthers Birthdays guy’s enthusiasm, paints a bright, dirty grin on his lips as he begins to thrust his hips, slowly starts to fuck Patrick’s legs.

This is – fuck, this isn’t what Patrick expected, and he certainly didn’t mean to moan again when a hard dick brushes against his own aching cock, sends a delicious surge of pleasure tickling up his spine. Sharp hipbones leave bruises on the back of his thighs, tan fingers leave a trail of goosebumps and two stiff pink nipples and Patrick moans again, he has forgotten why, but he’s gasping and panting and humming with illicit desire.

The thrusts go harder, faster, rough but not violent, Birthday guy’s cock rubbing against sweat-slick, reddened skin, and there’s his own hardon trapped between Patrick’s thighs and belly; Patrick thrashes his head, the bunny ears now lost somewhere among the pillows.

Patrick can’t bring himself to fake Pete’s name falling from his lips again in cold calculation. He just keeps moaning as he feels him come, head thrown back, bangs sticking to his sweaty face, a blush spreading down his face and chest, hands dug into Patrick’s thighs. That should be it, and yet Patrick – despite any previous knowledge – bucks his hips in search for warmth, friction, the hard press of another cock, and when he finds it, he comes as well, unexpected and without warning, the intensity leaving him numb.

 

Coldness caresses his hot skin when Birthday guy withdraws, and with a groan, Patrick stretches his legs, still slightly shaking. There’s cum sticking to his belly, the sheets around him rumpled and stained with spit and sweat, his chest heaving almost enough to make Patrick afraid of an asthma attack that he really doesn’t need right now.

“You _really_ made a fucking mess,” Patrick growls, and he doesn’t know which mess he is even referring to anymore, doesn’t even know if he’s talking to his client or himself.

Birthday guy still laughs, low and ugly. The bunny ears are put back on Patrick’s disheveled hair. “You’re so goddamn cute, Rabbit,” he’s heard that before, but the pet name adds an uncomfortable intimacy to it, “and fucking feisty, too. The best company I could’ve wished for on my birthday.”

 

 

If Patrick is the best company he could’ve wished for, that’s rather sad, or so Patrick thinks. He keeps that to himself.

“Take the master bathroom, I’ll take the guest one. Don’t forget to kiss me goodbye before you leave.”

With that, Patrick is left alone in the bedroom. He calls the agency for a last checkup and a cab, then takes a hot shower and scrubs himself clean, changes into fresh clothes, tosses yesterday’s costume together with the stupid, laughable bunny ears into his bag and out of sight.

The uneasy feeling still doesn’t want to vanish.

 

 

Birthday guy is waiting in the kitchen, eating another slice of cake. Patrick would be jealous if he was still hungry, but there’s a tight knot in his stomach and a lump in his throat that make the bake rather unappealing.

“Came to kiss you goodbye,” Patrick says coyly, batting his lashes and grinning like he’s supposed to. The kiss is too slow, too sensual, too possessive; Patrick tastes the sweetness of the cake and the bitterness of jealousy.

“I can come see you anytime you want,” Patrick says nonetheless, like the agency told him to; they’re supposed to encourage the customers to return. There’s a phrase for every situation, for every sort of client, and Patrick knows exactly how to play it with this one. “Anytime you’re lonely,” Patrick whispers sweetly, and Birthday guy’s eyes widen. Bingo.

The fresh air of the new day greets Patrick as he finally makes it out of the house, and he takes a deep breath before he slides into the cab that’s already waiting for him. The taste of their last kiss still lingers on his lips, and a new name stains them now.

 

 _Pete_.

 

Patrick knows he will see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please consider leaving a little comment, it's what keeps me going!
> 
> And more plot to come in the following chapters... ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 418 days of sobriety lead to going to boring partys with a stripper - escort, as he insists - as your fake boyfriend for the evening. What can go wrong? Surely, nothing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there everyone, and thank you for your patience! I intended to update sooner but then life kicked me in the ass and I also did BBB and way too many other projects, so, whew. That's over for the most now, so strip- er, escort Patrick should be back to more regular updates!
> 
> Thanks to Semi and Laudanum for beta-reading! <3 
> 
> As always, all art done by me!

 

 

 

 

“My name is Pete, and I’m an addict.”

 

The words become easier over time, yet Pete clutches the cup of Starbucks in his hand as he looks into the familiar faces attending the NA meetings. It’s usually the same ones, all the rich from 90120 Beverly Hills are gathered and have momentarily forgotten their zip code snobbism as they sit on uncomfortable folding chairs in a church’s basement to talk about drugs.

It’s not the bored trophy wives and their overworked husbands, the ex-trophy wives struggling to cope with their replacement with a younger model, the too-ambitious businessman, lawyer, investment banker. Hypocrite like he feels he is sometimes, Pete chose the _hip_ meeting attended mostly by washed-up actors, producers, agents, big-time screenwriter and everyone else caught in the monstrous machine of Hollywood. Misery loves like-minded company.

“Hello, Pete,” they all say back, about two dozen gray faces mirroring Pete’s own. He takes another sip of his coffee; the program always talks of a higher deity, and Pete’s higher deity is definitely Starbucks. And he’s not alone with that thought. In his honorable opinion, they owe all addicts everywhere a couple of free rounds.

Sighing, Pete puts down the paper cup, and reminds himself he needs this. This is healing. This is good. This will help him stay sober for another day. This is good. This is good. “So,” he starts nervously, “I’d like to share today. Last week was my 29th birthday…”

 

It is impossible to escape Travie. Innermost feelings are tucked back into the secret pockets of their hearts, expensive coffee cups litter the trash bin, all the donuts are eaten and the Ave Maria of the addicts is done and over for today.

And yet, Travie stands before Pete, unwilling to let him go.

“Yo, Pete, what was that about?”

Pete plays the innocent, and he plays it badly. Travie cocks his head, and it’s not only his sheer size or tattoos that are intimidating. As laid back as Travie may appear, he doesn’t tolerate bullshit at all – especially not when it comes to recovery.

“You had a party? Do I even need to point out how many triggers that held?” No, he doesn’t, Pete knows well, but remains silent like the scolded boy he is. “You should’ve told me.”

Yes, Pete should’ve, he knows, but goes for an excuse rather than apology. “I told Gabe. He’s supportive. He made sure I was safe.”

“Well but Gabe is neither an addict, nor your sponsor.” Sometimes, Pete curses Travie’s flawless logic. “I am here to help, Pete. But I can only do that if you let me.”

“See it as training. There’s another party coming up,” Pete decides to admit, “it’s the Writers Guilds Gala. I might get nominated for an award, so I gotta show my face. It’s business, I need to go, if only to spare my agent the heart attack.” Pete hesitates, then decides he owes his sponsor the truth. “And the rest of my business isn’t going so well these days. I barely raked up the credits to keep me in the Guild, and my new book… Let’s say progress is slow.” He sighs heavily, then tries to go for a smile. “Besides, I pay them over 2000 bucks a year, I wanna get my free food.”

Sighing as well, Travie pats his shoulders. “Will you be safe?”

Pete scoffs. He’s never safe for as long as that sick brain of his is rotting in his skull.

“Have someone go with you,” Travie proposes when he sees Pete’s frown, “I can come if you like.”

Now, as much as Pete admires Travie and as much as he appreciates all the earnest effort that helps him stay sober, he’s not really in the mood to make an already uptight gala even worse by bringing his sponsor.

 

No, in fact, Pete should bring some entertainment.

 

Pete shakes his head as a brilliant idea hits him, and he feels a smile creeping up on his lips as he answers: “Don’t worry. I’ll have someone who accompanies me…”

  
  


In the privacy of his home, the idea doesn’t sound too smart anymore. Taking an escort out to the gala of the Writers Guild – maybe not the best plan Pete ever had, that much self-awareness he has left.

Doesn’t mean he won’t follow through.

On the other line, the very friendly secretary (or whoever answers the phone for a hooker agency) notes down the date, time, Pete’s other demands. He needs someone who offers the boyfriend experience for an evening at a party, yes, he wants the escort to stay the night, no, the invitation calls for dress casual only. Oh, he would like to book “Patrick” again? Oh yes, Pete would like that very much.

When he hangs up, Pete feels only the slightest bit of guilt for having ordered a fake boyfriend and some very real sex on the phone like that. It feels surreal. He’d like to laugh, and he’d like a Xanax (or two, or three) to take off the edge, suffocate the hysteria bubbling in his stomach, and calm him down.

Instead, Pete mails his RSVP to the Writers Guild, and puts a + 1 next to his name.

  
  


In the following weeks, Joe keeps pestering him about the book (still a slow progress), has Pete’s clothes picked out for him (“no more glitter, remember, we are trying to renew your sober image”), and so what if Pete makes him believe that his +1 for the party isn’t a hooker. He’s told Joe “It’s someone to keep me sober”, which surprisingly enough, Joe has just accepted. Most likely under the false assumption that someone from NA or his sponsor is accompanying him.

“Yes, I’m sure the guy will be dressed appropriately,” Pete repeats for the third time to a worried Joe on the phone. He’s forgone a business lunch by pretending to have a sudden burst of inspiration, a little white lie to hide the bigger lie – no way Joe couldn’t look through his bullshit if they met face to face. Pete finds some newfound fondness for the phone.

He can hear Joe clear his throat, prepares for battle.

“There’s a studio that might buy the movie rights to your newest book,” Joe says instead, now with his business voice. “I can’t promise anything, but after the success of Gray and The Youngblood Chronicles, they want to snatch it up first. So you better keep the title short this time, so we can slap it on a movie poster without changing it.”

“Awesome,” Pete replies weakly, because that’s what he’s supposed to say, happiness and excitement is the only routine reaction possible.

Later, long after Joe has hung up and Pete’s laptop has been turned off after being fed a few sparse words, Pete tries not to panic. He’s sold scripts before, and he’s sold the rights to books before too. He can pitch to Hollywood, sure. They’re fighting over the rights to a movie for a book that hasn’t been written, whatever. It’s fine.

It’s going to be fine.

  
  


In between panic frenzies and caffeine-induced writing sessions, the date of the gala has sneaked up on Pete. It’s afternoon, he’s pacing the room, dressed up in new clothes that feel all wrong against his skin, scratchy and foreign, marketing-approved sensibility for an event that no one even cares for. Only the tie is left, clutched in his hand as he continues to pace the room.

Pete knows this is just the training stage. They’re taking him out on a test drive, to see if he crashes and burns, before anyone dares to send him somewhere important. Somewhere he could be seen. Where he could do stupid shit like wear an outfit that’s too flashy or drink until he’s convinced hitting on the hostess’ husband is a great idea or take so many pills in the bright high-class bathroom that he trips and falls on stage when they call him up to the stage to claim his award, passes out afterwards in his own piss and vomit.

The doorbell announces a visitor, and over the interface, Pete can see a small figure standing in front of the door, hands behind their back, foot tapping an inaudible rhythm as they wait. Now’s a good time to call Travie, or Joe, or his therapist, or at least the escort agency to demand they take back their tempting wares before Pete can make a fool of himself.

Well, it’s been too long since Pete hasn’t been anything but a fool; he shoves the tie into his pockets, then buzzes his guest in.

 

To his relief, the agency sent him the right Patrick – the cute little bunny stripper from his birthday party. Except this time, Patrick is dressed in what looks like the grown-up version of a stripper outfit. He’s wearing a colorful striped tie, a shirt, and a goddamn sweater under a navy blazer, paired with chinos, and formal dress shoes. A black cap is perched on top of his head, strands of long-ish blond hair peeking out of it to complete the appearance of a school boy all dressed up. Fine, a school boy from a very expensive private school, the clothes don’t look cheap, they just – make it look like he’s wearing a costume. He looks like the parody of a parody.

“It’s what the agency provided me with,” Patrick says defensively when he notices Pete’s disapproving stare. “If you don’t like it, I can always undress…”

“Thanks, but I need you dressed for now.” Pete motions him into the living room. Maybe he’s just being judgmental. Maybe eating Patrick’s ass and fucking him senseless last time they saw screws with Pete’s perception. “Need anything? Food? Drinks?”

“I’d love me a glass of _water_ ,” Patrick says with just a little too much sarcasm behind the coy act. Pete decides to just walk over to the kitchen, stick his head into the fridge for a moment to cool off and clear his thoughts, then grab a bottle of water. It’s not just _any_ water, it’s fancy Canadian water called _berg_ , harvested from melted icebergs which speaks to Pete’s morbid needs for destruction and impending doom. _Berg_ sounds majestic and important, and vaguely German. It’s pricey with $20 a bottle, but what else will he spend his money on? Besides, $20, that’s not even a tenth of what a bottle of liquor Gabe and he emptied without thinking twice usually costed.

 

The look on Patrick’s face says more than the unspoken words hidden behind the curve of his professional smile and slightly arched brow as he takes the designer bottle from Pete’s hand.

 

“Where are we going?"

“Job stuff,” Pete says as he tries to do his tie. “It’s a party hosted by the Writers Guild.”

Patrick furrows his brows. “The what?”

“Exactly.” No one fucking knows or cares much about a bunch of writers, second-tier journalists, screenplay writers and everyone else who spends most of the time behind the scenes by the nature of the job.

 

The callboy on Pete’s couch clicks his tongue in disapproval of the abrupt answer, corrects himself by clearing his throat and putting on his business voice. “And how do you want me to act?”

“You’re gonna be my boyfriend for the night,” Pete explains as calmly as he can as he keeps staring into the widened eyes of his own reflection. “Just a cute little boyfriend for a cute little event.”

“Cute little boyfriend,” Patrick repeats with an unreadable expression, “fine.”

 

That sounds less than enthusiastic; good thing Patrick can give fucking amazing blowjobs, or he’d be out of a job in no time.

Pete straightens his shoulders, his fingers still fighting with the damn tie. He’s sure he had some muscle memory for tying this bullshit, he’s 29 and feeling goddamn pathetic. Pete doesn’t even know if it’s nervousness, if he really doesn’t know how to to do it, or if the memory somehow got flooded out of him in rehab together with the pharmaceuticals in his blood, piss, sweat, and tears.

A gentle hand on his shoulder brings him back to reality, the here and now, where he is 418 days sober and a stripper is doing his tie for him. How come life is still spinning out of control after all this time?

“Thanks,” Pete mumbles as he watches Patrick tie the fabric into an elegant half-Windsor. He has pretty hands, and Pete swallows at the thought of these strong, slender fingers wrapped around his throbbing cock. “The driver should be here any minute.”

Patrick takes a step back, straightens his back, adjusts his hat. “Now then,” he singsongs, voice velvet-smooth like the plush of his lips, “time to show off your new boyfriend.”

  
  


In the car, Pete sinks into the seat next to Patrick, brushes a kiss over the surprisingly soft sideburns. Patrick turns his head to kiss back, lets Pete feel the sweet give of pink plush lips against his own.

“Why are we going to this thing?” Patrick asks in between kisses, “just – mhm, just so I keep my story straight...”

“I’m a writer,” Pete explains impatiently, hands all over Patrick, eager to undress him here and now despite better knowledge. “We’re going to meet other people who write. End of story.”

“What an explanation from a man who makes a living with words,” Patrick mumbles back, only laughing at Pete’s disapproving growl. Pete’s not sure if the callboy being feisty is just a calculated act for a stupid client, or if Patrick is really like that. It doesn't matter, because it works either way. “What is it that you write? Anything I heard of?”

“Depends,” Pete shrugs, tries not to let pride win out. “You watch TV?”

Patrick raises his brows, which Pete interprets as a yes. He lets go of the callboy, clears his throat, tries to sell himself as a professional here.

 

“I do all sorts of writing. Screenplays for movies, TV shows, I got a book series…”

 

“Oh!” Patrick’s eyes widen in excitement. “You mean like, Game of Thrones? I’m so into the soundtrack, too. The composer experimented with all kinds of fascinating foreign instruments – well.” He stops himself, leaves the sentence open.

“I didn't write for that one,” Pete admits not without regret; it would’ve been an amazing experience for sure. “But, uhm, did you watch the Youngblood Chronicles?”

  
To Pete’s utter shock, Patrick shakes his head. “Nah. I’m not really into blood and gore, and I heard the plot made no sense. I always see people share their absurd theories all around the internet and I still don’t get it.”

  
Now, that fucking stings. The Youngblood Chronicles are Pete’s baby, he wrote the books, they gave him the freedom to write the script and make suggestions for the casting and set, and the plot is meant to be cryptic, people just don’t get it.

Therefore, “you don’t get it,” is what Pete asks to defend his masterpiece with the eloquence of a thirteen-year old fanboy, “it’s meant to be cryptic and open-ended, so that people can take their own lessons from it. I gave them a universe to play around in, to make their own decisions and to get them to think. I want them to engage with my art. It’s supposed to be an _experience_.”

 

Patrick makes a vague mhm noise without sounding convinced.

“You read poetry?” Pete asks, and that hint of desperation in his voice is really starting to piss him off.

Again, Patrick shakes his head, and Pete just gives up. Odds are that if Patrick hasn’t read or watched the Youngbloods, he hasn’t heard of Pete’s poetry either, hasn’t picked up a copy of Gray or read through Pete’s earlier collections of poetry (nowadays, all available in fancy collector’s editions after their successors’ success).

It doesn't matter anyway, so what if Pete’s ego is bruised, Patrick is still pretty and all his for the evening. They go back to kissing, hands over clothes, like they’re driving to prom. It’s sweet and it’s enough to keep Pete’s mind away from the dawn of social anxiety for now.

  
  


As always, the Beverly Hilton is swarming with people.

There aren’t really any paparazzi hanging out at least, it’s just a modest red carpet with photographers hired by the event or any little trade magazine desperate for an article. Pete tips the driver, gets out of the car, and finds himself next to Patrick, who’s let himself out of the car, no chance for Pete to open the door for him like a true gentleman. But his pretty pink lips display a bright smile and press a kiss to the stubble on Pete’s cheek, so Pete forgets about it, slings an arm around his fake boyfriend as they walk in together.

Pete smiles for the camera, nods towards people he pretends to remember, finds his way around the event room with muscle memory alone. He’s been here last year, and the year before, several times at least. Last time he was here, Pete won the Best Screenplay award, he can’t remember anything aside from bright bright light and the wing-shaped, golden surface of the award and then the cool, smooth porcelain of the toilet bowl. Everything’s a blur, Pete’s brain running on champagne and benzos and four days of sleep deprivation. The lights were so bright, so many bright lights, the flashes of the camera, the stage light, more cameras and just so much light, Pete thinks he might be turning blind, he can feel the anxiety seeping into his thoughts, clouding his brain, obstructing his view even further, what if -

 

“Hey. You okay?” Patrick tugs at Pete’s arm, looking slightly irritated and confused. “Do you need to sit down?”

 

Pete notices he’s leaning on one of the tables, eyes widened as he stares at the crisp, white tablecloth, so clean it’s almost blinding, no, no, that’s not a good thought, it’s irrational and inappropriate. Pete shakes his head, closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m better now,” he says softly, doesn't know if he’s telling the truth or if he’s gotten too good at lying to himself. Pete takes another deep breath, reminds himself. One year chip. 418 days. Pete repeats the group affirmation from rehab to himself: _And I am someone_.

“Let’s get something to drink,” Patrick proposes with a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I’m sure they’ll have some fancy foreign water for us.”

 

“I do drink other things,” Pete replies annoyed as they navigate towards the bar. Bar is bad. Bar means alcohol, too. 418 days. Pete won’t turn the counter over to zero. Pete won’t mention that he’s lying, that he drinks water and Starbucks and that’s it. He’d grown tired of smoothies by day 132. He’d grown sick of sugary-sweet soda by day 248. He truly feels pathetic. “And you can drink whatever. I don’t mind.” Pete minds very much, but he’s not going to be even more lame and jealous than he already is.

  
“Nonsense. You’re sober, and if I drink alcohol, how could we kiss?” Patrick turns towards him, bats his lashes, the matching parody of a gesture to the mockery of a costume he’s wearing. “Or don’t you want to kiss me?”

  
Pete mutters something under his breath that’s lost among the crowd’s noises while Patrick leans over the counter, orders fucking _water_ with the air of confidence like he’s ordering expensive wine.

 

So here he stands, the San Pellegrino glass in his hand almost passing as a miniature wine glass in shape, and the guy hanging on his arm almost passing off as a real boyfriend. Pete thinks there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, something profoundly deep and pretentious, maybe it’s something to fill the 45 minute session with his therapist on Monday.

  
In the meantime, Pete works the room, tries his best to network, hands in his pockets and his smile turned up a notch to gloss over his anxiety. He’s gotten rid of the embarrassing water glass, denies every other offer of alcohol, he’s being good. This is going well. Pete can’t believe it.

  
About two minutes into a conversation about the Guild and unions and if there will be a next great Writer’s Strike, Patrick has slipped off, and Pete hardly noticed. But when Patrick isn’t back after fifteen minutes, the empty space next to Pete starts to become awkward.

 

Pete’s throat is dry and his hands are sweaty when he finds himself all alone among the masses, all dressed up with nowhere to go. He doesn't feel like talking anymore, only gives friendly nods towards the faces he recognizes as he stumbles through the room, bright lights catching his eye. Patrick isn’t there. Everything feels entirely familiar, like Pete’s flying above the crowd, towering over them all alone, he can basically taste the acidic pill on the tip of his tongue. Is that what he did last year? Is that what they call a flashback?

Pete leans against the wall, sweating, clutching his shirt; his heartbeat thrums against his fist as he scans the room for the escort, that one proof that this isn’t some terrible rip in the fabric of time and space, that this is the new Pete, 418 days sober, this isn’t another disaster, this isn’t -

  
Finally, fucking finally, Pete catches a glimpse of strawberry-blond hair under a black paperboy hat; yes, this is day 418, the pills are out of Pete’s system, and his callboy, paid with his hard-earned cash, is cornered by Shane fucking Morris, second-rate-tier reporter for the Huffington Post and one of the last people Pete wants to see, like, ever. He hates that arrogant prick, they’ve been enemies ever since Pete openly supported the Writer strike which Shane was too coward to stand behind, and it’s not gotten better with every bad review Shane wrote about Pete’s work, or every time Pete wrote a pathetic, miserable character that was a thinly-veiled insert of Shane.

  
Pete misses the drugs, misses them like a person. Right now, he misses the confidence they gave him. A shot of tequila for good luck, he can basically taste the salt and lemon, or little pastel pills resolving every internal issue with chemicals. All Pete has now is a nerve-wrecking anger and hands balled into fists so no one sees they’re shaking as he approaches the two. Shane, that bastard, leans over Patrick, one hand placed on the wall, effectively trapping him with politeness and subtle aggression. Society and his job dictates that Patrick can’t make a scene, and while Shane doesn't know the latter, his technique is still effective. Patrick is visibly annoyed and visibly uncomfortable and the way Shane just doesn’t care makes Pete’s blood boil.

Shane notices him before Pete can think of a grand entrance line. “Oh, Jason himself is joining us!” Scorn and derision in his voice, his hand still placed on the wall next to Patrick’s head, “I heard little Tricky here is your boyfriend?”

 

Patrick clicks his tongue in disapproval, and Pete hurries to say: “Yes. And it’s just Pete now.”

 

“Indeed, that’s my boyfriend,” Patrick answers, short and simple, with a smile and enough conviction in his voice that even Pete almost believes the lie. Shane narrows his eyes, glances over to Pete again, and Patrick uses the moment to duck away and slide next to Pete. The short, simple kiss they exchange almost seems genuine to Pete.

  
The act must’ve been enough to convince Shane, whose face has lost the flirtatious smile.

 

“How’s the wife?” Pete asks with faked interest and hidden aggression.

  
“Home with the kids,” Shane replies as he takes another sip of his champagne with aggravating smugness in his damn eyes. “She’s getting older, unlike your boyfriends. Did you pick this one up from boarding school?”

  
Shane reaches out and tugs at Patrick’s hat, pushing it down until the brim hides the flash of angry blue eyes. Pete still catches a glimpse of humiliation, notices how the corner of Patrick’s pretty mouth twitches. Still, all the callboy does is fake-laugh at the offensive joke as he adjusts his hat.

  
“Why is he with you anyway? It can’t be because of his dick. I’ve seen that,” Shane says with a raised brow and an unimpressed voice, “we all have, whether we wanted to or not. Not that Jason – oh, no, you’re going by _Pete_ now, aren’t you? Well, not that he was ever shy to show it off. The easiest lay in the room. Even a hooker would have higher standards.”

  
“And yet, I didn’t suck your pathetic little cock no matter how drugged out of my mind I was.” Pete spits the word out like they’re rotten food, humiliation heating up his face and anger burning in his chest. He clenches his hands into fists until his nails dig into his flesh in a sharp, painful way, until he thinks his muscles and sinews must snap any second. “Why don’t you get the fuck away from me and my boyfriend?”

 

Hiding behind lies has always felt good, so why isn’t there the usual sense of satisfaction? Is it because Shane doesn’t look impressed by the lame threat, or because the supposed relationship Pete has to defend himself with is fake?

 

Shane grabs a champagne flute from a waiter passing by, hands it to Patrick, although he keeps his eyes fixed on Pete. The fucking smugness in his smile is infuriating.

  
“We all know Pete’s a good, sober boy now, but… You’ll need this,” Shane says to Patrick with a sweetness in his voice that’s as fake as his smile, “if you want to pretend to have a good time with _Pete_.”

This time, Patrick takes the glass, his facial expression unreadable as he eyes the elegant flute, wipes away a drop of expensive champagne with his thumb. Pete swallows at that, and not only because he sort of misses the alcohol. Shane grins. Patrick smiles back, but the sweetness is belied by his narrowed eyes, by the corner of his mouth twitching ever-so-slightly with bad intentions.

Patrick raises the glass as if he wanted to raise a toast, then just fucking spills the expensive champagne all over Shane’s expensive dress shirt. The crisp white fabric gets soaked the with gold-tinted drink, pours down to his vest, some of it landing on the $600 patent leather dress shoes.

 

For a second, there’s just silence, Pete about as stunned as Shane, who looks like his eyes are about to bulge out of his skull.

  
“Oops, I’m so sorry” Patrick singsongs, his apology as fake as Shane’s friendliness, “silly me… Send my boyfriend the cleaning bill, will you?”

  
That’s the moment Pete comes back to his senses, and drags Patrick off before he can empty another glass of champagne over the now clearly very angry fellow writer. Shane shouts something that sounds like “come back, you goddamn little faggots,” and Pete decides the evening can’t get any better. They stop at a less crowded corner of the room, Pete watching as a group of people surrounds his colleague who just shouted a slur in public. Oh, this is delicious.

Meanwhile, Patrick looks around in hectic, then grabs Pete’s wrist, drags him to a nearby glass door; Pete follows, dreamlike, once more chasing his white rabbit. This time, they end up outside, in the quiet little garden section that is the Hilton’s newest pride. How befitting.

 

Away from people and prying eyes, Pete can’t hold back anymore. He bursts into laughter, loud and as unpleasant-sounding as always, tears streaming down his eyes as he remembers the priceless dumb look on Shane’s face. It’s worth all the hefty cleaning bills in the world. Pete laughs like hasn’t done in a long time, out of joy and relief, out of schadenfreude and to forget how his heart missed a beat when Patrick called him his boyfriend in front of someone else. Patrick, Rabbit, bunny boy, whatever Pete wants to call him, he’s an escort, stripper, he’s paid to say what Pete wants him to and yet, the silver-tongued lies seem like the golden dawn on the dark horizon of Pete’s life.

Pete laughs a little harder.

Said stripper watches as he catches his breath, takes off his hat to wipe away some sweat and to rearrange his hair. If Pete is not mistaken, his hands are shaking slightly. Either that, or maybe the whole world is breaking out of its angles, and anytime now a tunnel will open up for the two of them to fall into a fantastic dream world. Pete calms himself, laughter now reduced to small giggles, his hopes for the ground to swallow them sinking with each breath caught.

 

“You’re not mad?” Patrick asks, a shadow of nervousness darkening his face, which Pete doesn’t even notice.

  
“How the fuck could I be mad? That was fucking awesome,” Pete wheezes as he tries to catch his breath, tries not to fall back into hysteria. “Did you see Shane’s face?! Fucking priceless!”

  
“He still called you a faggot,” Patrick observes with a raised brow, he clearly doesn’t get it. Pete can’t blame him. People can get away calling a rent boy like him a faggot to his face, and they can get away laughing at Pete behind closed doors, but not at a fucking Gala from the Writer’s Guild, in public and for everyone to hear.

  
“It’ll be a nice story for the press.” Pete straightens himself, clears his throat. “A reporter from the Huffington Post publicly calling someone a faggot? Their PR team will have a nice time coming up with an apology. It’ll give them all something to talk about now that I don’t deliver the scandals myself anymore.”

  
With a scoff, Patrick leans against a nearby tree, arms crossed defensively. “And I thought no one gave a fuck about today? Just another self-righteous party of the wannabe-famous?”

  
“Hey, those are your words, not mine,” Pete gives back slightly irritated, his pride hurt by the harsh judgment. After all, his books sold well, every pretentious teen read his poetry and every bookstore has the Youngbloods-trilogy in their bestseller section, soon to be followed by the next new series that Pete has yet to start – fuck. Whatever. Just because some callboy doesn’t recognize star-author Jason Kingston in the form of a sweaty, frowning Pete Wentz, doesn’t mean shit.

 

 _And I am someone_.

 

No doubt noticing his client’s disapproval, Patrick uncrosses his arms, opens them up to invite Pete to come closer. Pete follows, decides to forget about anything else as he leans in for a kiss.

 

The kiss is slow and almost shy, as if Pete hadn’t hired a hooker and as if Patrick really was the virgin he tried to play. It’s a lie, but it’s a cute lie, one that sends shivers down Pete’s spine and makes him forget everything else. The rabbit is still such a great kisser, the plush of his lips a sinful softness, the tips of his fingers igniting sparks on Pete’s skin.

 

“We’re in public,” Patrick remarks, batting his lashes in the coquette-ish manner that’s both clearly unnatural, yet nevertheless tempting.

“Don’t care,” Pete grumbles, both because the garden is empty, and because he really doesn’t care. He shrugs off his jacket, throws it carelessly to the ground, Patrick’s soon to follow. Even though he can pull of the dork-ish look of the sweater vest, Pete still gestures Patrick to get rid of it. After pulling it over his head (in a rather unsexy manner for someone who gets paid to strip) and throwing it to the growing pile of clothes on the ground, Patrick tugs as his striped tie. Pete nods, and with what almost sounds like a relieved sigh, Patrick gets rid of it with a quickness that suggests he’s had experience with undoing ties as much as he has with tying them. Pete drops that thought.

Patrick smiles, and it’s his almost convincing work smile except for the faint glimmer of mischief in his eye, that spark of something – or someone – underneath the escort act that drives Pete mad. “You dare to go any further?”

Like hell Pete won’t. He’s already half-undressed and semi-hard in his increasingly uncomfortable dress pants, he’s surrounded by a quiet luxurious garden and his little white rabbit, and the streak of madness in Patrick’s smile is infectious.

 

“Are you calling me a chicken?”

  
“Is that a Back To The Future reference?” Patrick scoffs, the edge of his grin tainted with a hidden sneer. “You’re pretty bad at dirty talk for someone who makes his living with writing.”

  
“Well, excuse me,” Pete says, neither sorry nor focused on conversation anyway, “I’ll let my hands speak for me instead.” He’s struggling with Patrick’s buttons, eager fingers too impatient to reveal the warm skin beneath. It’s lame, and earns him another small scoff, which despite seeming slightly unprofessional makes Pete smile. He buries his head in the curve of Patrick’s exposed throat, trails kisses from his collarbone up to his ear. Patrick turns his head, a pair of challenging blue eyes and the rose-colored blush on his cheek an invitation to extend the kisses.

Pete’s lips find the soft stubble of his sideburns, heated pink skin, the delicate flutter of Patrick’s closed eyelids. Patrick inhales sharply upon being kissed there, furrows his brows, hands momentarily stopping to clutch into Pete’s half-undone shirt (when has he lost his tie? Pete can’t remember). The small hiccup is already forgotten by the time Pete shrugs off his shirt, not caring for wrinkles or grass stains. What matters is the naked guy right in front of him – Patrick hasn’t hesitated for a second to get rid of his shirt – the passionate kisses they exchange, the wanton moan Patrick lets out when Pete pushes his knee between his legs.

Encouraged by the sweet sounds and even sweeter kisses, Pete decides to just go for it. He palms Patrick’s crotch through his pants, strokes him into half-hardness while they make out against the backdrop of the distant party noise.

 

“What do you have in mind?” Patrick asks in a hushed voice in between two kisses. “I can bend over right here if you want…”

Damn if that doesn’t make Pete’s own growing erection twitch in excitement, but no. That’s not the plan. Pete steals one more kiss from Patrick’s mouth, trails down to his nipples, bites just hard enough to make Patrick bite his lips to suppress a groan; then, sinks to his knees. It’s not down the rabbit hole, but the absurdity of sinking down to the neatly-trimmed grass to blow a hooker in the garden of the Beverly Hilton is just enough madness to satisfy Pete.

 

“You want to blow me?” Said hooker asks in an almost-neutral voice, barely hiding the doubts about the sincerity of Pete’s intention.

 

“If that’s fine with you,” Pete replies somewhat playfully; Patrick can either go with it, or just politely decline.

  
Of course, the callboy goes with it, and of course, damn Patrick laughs at him like he thinks Pete is silly while Pete fumbles with his belt and the zipper. Oh, Pete knows he is silly, but what does it matter when there’s a pretty guy with an impressive erection straining against the fabric of his pants right in front of Pete? At least he’s not drunk or high, this is merely his sober (in)sanity.

Finally, Pete shoves down Patrick’s pants and underwear, and his dick springs free, rests against Pete’s cheekbone. A swift hand provides a condom, which Pete rolls down over Patrick’s dick with the slightest regrets as all fantasies about tasting salt and musk and the delicious bitterness of Patrick’s orgasm vanish.

Everything else is still there though, the grin on Patrick’s lips as he looks down expectantly, the hard, hot length of his impressively-sized cock, the soft give on Patrick’s gorgeous thighs when Pete digs his hand into them, works it up to the curve of his ass.

  
Patrick is a dream come true in the from of wanting pale flesh and the shape of a gorgeous cock just waiting to be sucked by Pete. Shaved clean save for a line down his navel and a small patch of ginger hair over his cock, he’s whipped cream and strawberries. He’s a symphony of moans and whines as Pete starts to tease, tongue lapping over the latex-covered head of Patrick’s cock, one hand loosely wrapped around its aching length, the nails of the other leaving half-moons on the small of Patrick’s back.

 

“Fucking tease,” Patrick groans as he buries his hands into Pete’s carefully straightened hair; Pete’s got his dick in his mouth, how can the stripper be so trusting? Maybe he’s caught onto the fact that Pete is a total, utter fool. “Go and suck my cock for real, if you dare.”

Part of Pete wants to play the game, wants to throw back banter at this semi-professional stripper taunting him like that. The bigger part of Pete though already has Patrick’s dick in his mouth, his ass in his hand, and that’s too good to give up for a lame comeback. So, Pete just goes for it, slides his lips further down, tongue pressed against the shaft’s underside, eyes looking up to see defeat in Patrick’s eyes in the form of arousal. But Patrick’s head is tipped back, and Pete swears he hears him laugh, throaty and without malice, just a short hiccup before he returns to sing-song the sweetest little moans for Pete’s pleasure.

 

Pete keeps looking up, hopes to catch a glimpse of Patrick’s face, of adoring blue eyes and plush lips caught between white teeth as he whimpers while Pete sucks him off. It’s in vain, Patrick doesn't look down, keeps his head tipped back and eyes closed, and Pete can’t bring himself to ask for something the stripper clearly isn’t willing to give. It’s alright, it’s fine, Pete _is_ someone, and he’s not powerless, no, he’s getting Patrick off, licking and stroking and sucking all while his own dick is painfully erect. That’s a nicer side effect of sobriety, Pete muses, being able to get it up again. Maybe even come. The thrill of being in a silent, secure space not ten feet away from the party adds another enticing thrill to it.

 

“I’m gonna,” Patrick gasps, fingers threading aimlessly through Pete’s hair, “I’m gonna come, Pete...”

  
That only makes Pete double his effort, Patrick’s dick now hitting the back of his throat until he’s almost coughing, hands caressing Patrick’s balls and thighs, his own cock still neglected. Patrick is breathing hard, hands fisted into Pete’s hair again, borderline painful and exactly what Pete craves. Maybe, Patrick is really forgetting himself, maybe, his delectable little cries are real, maybe the thrusts of his hips as he comes in Pete’s mouth is a real sign of very real pleasure. Pete’s always been a romantic.

Pete works him through it, spit-slick lips still wrapped around Patrick’s dick, his thumbs leaving a dark-red smudge on pale thighs. Patrick shivers, hips thrusting one more time, before he leans back with a heavy sigh and lets go of Pete’s hair.

“That was nice,” he says breathlessly, like Pete isn’t a goddamn paying client who just sucked off a hooker in public, like he wants to see how far he can go with the cocky attitude.

 

It still works wonders for Pete’s dick, which now that one orgasm is taken care of, really demands some attention. Pete is throbbing with desire as he gets up, presses close to Patrick to kiss him; Patrick kisses back, of course he does, with that infuriating, irresistible little giggle as he works a hand between them, starts to jerk Pete off.

Pete had plans for this, he swears they were somewhere in his brain but everything is blank, he’s a helpless beggar under Patrick’s touches, with Patrick’s hand on his shaft, the head of his cock pressing against the small soft swell of his stomach, and it takes seven strokes until Pete comes his brains out all over Patrick and himself.

If Pete had any brain function left, he’d be embarrassed. Instead, he just holds onto his little white rabbit as long as the afterglow keeps reality away. Patrick pats his back, endearingly awkward, until they finally part.

Pete just sinks on his knees again, he’s too tired and pleasantly satisfied to give a shit anymore. He watches as Patrick, clearly the more experienced one, deals with the situation with more grace. He pulls up his pants, produces some tissues from their pockets, gets the condom off his softening cock and, after cleaning himself a little, wraps it up in the tissues. Then, he sits down next to Pete, rubs off sweat and spit and come with a concentrated face that almost makes Pete laugh. It’s cute. It’s caring. It’s what a boyfriend would do. Pete could get used to this, which is what scares him the most.

Pete laughs, shakes his head. “Who knew I’d spend the evening blowing a hooker in public?”

“Escort,” Patrick says sharply while he buttons up his shirt, “I’m not a hooker. I’m an _escort_.”

“There’s a difference?” Pete asks with a lazy grin, it’s fun to rile up his Rabbit and watch him try to be a mighty roaring lion.

This time though, Patrick doesn’t seem to enjoy the banter. He presses his lips into a thin line, stops to button up his shirt, hands briefly clenching into fists. “You’re the fucking writer, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you know about the weight of words?”

Taken aback by the serious anger in Patrick’s voice, Pete raises his hands in defense. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever.” Patrick looks away, reaches for his grass-stained sweater vest and dirty blazer. “Whatever. You can call me by any name you want, it doesn’t change who I am.”

 

Slightly awkward silence follows as they both get dressed. By the time they’re done, Patrick has calmed down, he’s back to being charming as he turns to Pete and asks: “You wanna go back to the party?”

 

Patrick looks at him with a sun-beam smile, with radiant ocean eyes and calloused fingertips tracing Pete’s face. Calloused… Why are they calloused? The stripper is so well-groomed, what activity would leave such traitorous marks on his fingers?

Back to the party… Pete shakes his head before he can even think about it properly. No, he doesn’t. No, he doesn’t, because he’s not in the mood to party, he doesn’t have much strength left to fight the triggers all around him, he’s tired of people’s stares and whispers and gossip, the once enticing thrill of attention lost somewhere in the maelstrom of time and sobriety. No, Pete is exhausted, physically and emotionally, and he doesn’t want any party, doesn't want to deal with people, doesn't want to deal with Shane or anyone else.

He just wants to go home, leave the Wonderland party. With his rabbit. Damn, getting old sure makes him sentimental.

Pete doesn’t tell Patrick any of that; he just shakes his head. “I’ve had enough,” he hears himself say in a far softer voice than necessary, “let’s go home.”

With visible irritation, Patrick sits up. “Home,” he echoes, “back to your place then?” He takes a deep breath, and professionalism puts a pretty pout on his pretty lips. “Don’t you want to show me off? Isn’t that what you hired me for? Don’t you want to parade around your freshly-fucked jailbait boyfriend?”

“I hired you for company,” Pete answers as he buttons up his shirt, “and stop with the jailbait bullshit. I’m not that kind of guy.”

 

Patrick scoffs. “But I’m that kind of escort.”

There’s something bitter in his voice, a cold fury that sense a shiver down Pete’s spine. Is that why the agency got Patrick to dress up like a school boy? “Look, I didn’t hire you because of that,” Pete stutters nervously, “I just wanted a cute guy who can sing me a decent Happy Birthday.“

 

One perfectly shaped eyebrow raised (a gesture no doubt practiced in the mirror for hours), Patrick stares at him in disbelief. “Sing a decent Happy Birthday? That’s what you told the agency?”

“I sure did.” Pete shrugs, tries to remember more from Patrick’s performance than just luscious curves, the swing of his hips, and the obscene puckering of his lips each time Patrick dragged out the word _you_. “And you did a pretty good job, as far as I recall. With the singing, too, I mean.”

Patrick shakes his head, then laughs a little; it sounds dry and bitter. There’s something in it that makes Pete think he’s struck a nerve, and his first impulse is to dig further, try to pry some well-hidden truth from Patrick, Rabbit, the escort, whatever name he prefers. But they’re half-naked in the garden of an overly expensive hotel, it’s neither the time nor place for this.

Professionalism takes over the escort again, as Patrick straightens his back and repeats his question from before. “So. You really don't want to go back in?”

 

“No,” Pete whispers, a sadness that he can’t quite place making his tongue heavy, “no, I don’t. Screw those people. I don’t need them to give any more reason to gossip, and you – you don’t deserve their ridicule.” No, he can’t have another person dragged down and hurt by his whims, he doesn’t want Patrick to get hurt because of him. Protectiveness swells in Pete’s chest as he gets up, clumsily clasping his belt under the watchful eyes of the escort. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Pete says as he offers a hand to Patrick, who grins back at him as he takes it.

“Ready when you are.”

  
  


The ride back home is quiet, there’s no more making out, Pete’s too caught up in his own thoughts. He watches the lights of the city pass by; he can’t even remember how he got home last time. He can’t remember how he got home a lot of times. All these lost hours, where did they go?

Patrick doesn't speak either, but he holds Pete’s hand, a silent, comforting gesture.

 

Back at Pete’s place, Patrick heads straight for the bedroom, and Pete just follows. They fall into bed, time ticking away in the form of digital digits on Pete’s alarm clock.

“Hey, bun-bun,” Pete mumbles as he shifts to his side, “shouldn’t you try to seduce me or whatever?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick replies while lazily stretching his limbs, “tell me, should I? Will you get it up again, or can I save myself any fruitless effort and just offer you to watch me getting myself off?”

 

Pete scoffs with hurt pride. “Go fuck yourself.”

“I can if you want?” Patrick offers, somewhat serious now, eyebrows raised with the concern that he might’ve offended his client too much.

 

“No,” Pete replies with a heavy sigh, “I didn’t mean that – but, uhm. Maybe another time? And there’s nothing wrong with my potency, my dear little rabbit. It’s just been a long day.” That sounds exactly like something someone with a problem would say, Pete notices, but he’s too tired to give a damn. He can prove his point another time, when it isn’t late, when he doesn’t feel like he’s escaped Hell and its many, many temptations, balanced on the edge of sobriety like only a fool would. Tomorrow, he will have to respond to Joe’s angry calls, he’ll have to deal with Shane’s bullshit, he’ll attend a meeting and talk about how much he’d like to do drugs.

Tonight, he has a different way to keep reality at bay. For a moment, Pete’s scared; he’s had fake happiness in the form of pills and alcohol, and now he has paid orgasms with a fake boyfriend. Is this another rabbit hole to fall down? Yet another way to self-destruct? One more obsession to drag him back to addiction and insanity?

 

When Patrick cuddles up to him with a small laugh, Pete thinks it might be worth it. He thinks it might be okay, even if just for tonight. Patrick kisses him goodnight, and then Pete doesn’t think anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please consider leaving a little comment, it's what keeps me going!~  
> No offence to the Writers Guild, haha. I'm sure their partys don't actually suck. Ah, and finally, with this chapter the fic earned the "Fake Relationship" tag - oh, and I'm sure this won't be the end of that...
> 
> Next chapter, we will have more expensive foreign water, some Will, and a few more sober days...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who is back! Me! Things have happened in my personal life the meantime, and, well. It was all a bit chaotic. 
> 
> Andyway, thanks to semi and laudanum for beta-reading and listening to my rambles!

Patrick is lazing on the couch, mindlessly flipping through the TV channels.

“Hoping to catch a glimpse of your _boyfriend_?” Will is leaning against the door frame, grinning at him. Patrick pretends to ignore it.

“I have lots of _boyfriends_ ,” Patrick says casually, knowing that Will knows he’s talking about work, not his absent actual love life. He considers switching to Netflix in hope of the conversation ending in favor of rewatching _Archer_ for the fifth time, but Will won’t let him off the hook that easily.

“It’s true, right? You went out with _the_ Jason Kingston?” Will looks at him with those innocent doe-eyes of his, a trick that might’ve worked on Patrick the first few times. “Heard you guys got in trouble with that reporter calling him a slur. Saw the pictures, too. Cute outfit, Tricky.”

 

It’s obvious Will’s pushing his buttons, and, as always, it works. “He hired me,” Patrick explains while he shuts off the TV, “and he just goes by Pete now.”

Will whistles at him, ignoring the death glare Patrick sends his way. He flops down on the couch next to Patrick, throwing his long legs over Patrick’s lap, who doesn't bother trying to push them off. Will is persistent, he knows that.

Patrick knows a lot more about Will. Like that Will’s a semi-successful artist who’s either dead-ass broke, or moderately wealthy whenever he manages to sell his paintings to the hip and trendy upper class of LA. He’s decent, if too psychedelic for Patrick’s taste, he has exhibits at some fairly decent galleries and sells a reasonable amount of his work. Sadly, Will might be artistically gifted, but has no sense or sensibility when it comes to money. What he earns, he spends on expensive art utensils, trips to weird art commune way out in the desert, or last time, on a massive amount of beaten gold because he was convinced only gold could convincingly convey the deepest depth of his message. Patrick just thinks Will got jealous of Damien Hirst and his diamond-encrusted skull, although he’s learned not to question Will’s artistic intentions. Will pays the rent, pays his share of groceries, and that’s what matters.

Patrick also knows how Will’s lips feel against his own, knows the salt-tang taste of Will’s dick, knows what Will looks like when he arches his back while he lets out a soft whisper of pleasure. They’ve dated, a time which Patrick doesn't regret, but they soon found out they just don’t fit together; William being too dreamy and too out of this world even for Patrick, and Patrick being too much of an overbearing boyfriend for Will’s delicate artist soul who thinks it’s totally fine to disappear for a week without a word because “the ocean was calling me, Patrick, I had to capture the moment”.

Now, Patrick is a part-time escort and full-time fool trying to make it as a musician in LA, rooming with his ex-boyfriend (the only one he ever stayed amicable with), the only person in this godforsaken city that truly cares for him. There’s something profoundly ridiculous and almost tragic to it, something that surely can be spun into music, notes, strums of his guitar that’s paid for and maintained with the money Patrick earns from sleeping with strangers.

 

“I’m a big fan of his,” Will interrupts Patrick’s little pity party, “loved the Youngblood Chronicles.”

“I know you do,” Patrick grumbles as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, “you were the one to babble on about all the weird theories that I still don't get. And no, I still don't think the Tarantino reference with the suitcase was oh so clever, it was just a cheap, borrowed metaphor.” 

Will rolls his eyes, waves his hand. “Your loss, dude. Hey, think you can get me his autograph?”

“No.” Patrick clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Will, I’m working. He hires me. I can’t mix that with personal bullshit. Plus, the agency will be pissed if they find out I harass the famous clients for autographs. Apparently, that destroys the fantasy or whatever.”

“But you’re his boyfriend!” Will says in a mock-hurt voice while pouting. “Sure you can’t try?”

“I told you, no.” Finally, Patrick rearranges himself on the couch, back resting against the armrest, his own legs now thrown over Will’s. They look pitifully short in comparison.

 

With a sigh, Will shakes his head, and when he speaks up, he sounds serious. “Is he treating you well?”

“You know he’s not actually my boyfriend, right?”

 

“I know, idiot. And you know what I mean.”

 

“All information about clients is confidential,” Patrick says, as if he’s ever stuck to that rule with Will at all times.

 

“I mean it.” Will looks at him, his big brown eyes having lost all playfulness now too. It makes Patrick uncomfortable. He’d rather go back to the banter, and to pretending there isn’t any need for Will to worry.

 

“He’s fine, I guess. Nice, a bit pretentious, maybe. But that’s it.” Patrick shrugs; he’s putting on an act, although part of himself suddenly wonders what kind of act, and to whom he’s performing. He’s had lots of these pretend boyfriends, there’s nothing different about Pete aside from the fact that he’s landed Patrick in the headlines of page 6 and some B-list internet gossip blogs. A place Patrick never wanted to venture, especially not as the fake escort boyfriend of some messed-up wannabe J.D. Salinger of the 00s.

 

Will sits up a little, reaches for Patrick’s hand. “How much longer?” He asks with more grave sincerity than Patrick feels comfortable with. “When can you finally quit the escort shit?”

“When my music makes enough money to support me,” Patrick answers, an often repeated reply. He doesn't withdraw his hands from Will’s, but that’s only because it feels nice to be touched without any sexual intentions for once. “You know I’m on it, Will. ‘s just that escorting makes me the most money in the meantime.” He sighs. “Look, I sent out some more demos, okay? Every major studio in town has my resume as well. I want to get a gig as a composer, even if it’s something small, like an indie movie or whatever. I’m not picky. I just need a foot in the door of the industry. I’m fucking good, and once people know that, they’ll know my name, too.”

Will smiles at him, squeezes his hand in reassurance. “I know you’re fucking brilliant. And you know I’m just worried sometimes.”

“I’m alright,” Patrick says more to himself than to Will, smiles a smile that more resembles the fake ones for his clients than his real one. LA is a wunderkind graveyard and sometimes, Patrick wonders if he’ll be buried here too, together with his too-ambitious dreams.

 

No. For now, he’s not willing to give up just yet.

  
  
  


With every time, their backstory has become more complex. It’s no longer Patrick hanging on Pete’s arm pretending to be interested in conversations about writing screenplays or industry gossip, smiling and nodding along. People have started to ask questions, and Patrick can supply answers.

Who is Patrick (no last name, of course)? He claims to work in the publishing industry, but won’t say where. How did they meet? Oh, in a bookstore. What a coincidence, right? Pause for fake laughter. What does he think of Pete’s work? Well, more fake laughter, it’s not always Patrick’s taste but he admires Pete’s accomplishments greatly. Pause, then excuse himself to find Pete, get a glass of water, or any other excuse to drop the conversation. Patrick is sleep-walking through it, describing a life he never had and a boyfriend that is paying him good money for the pretend-relationship. With each word, the lie becomes more weight, with each detail added, it takes over more of Patrick’s actual life (not that he has much of that these days) and he doesn't know why he isn’t more annoyed about it. It feels dangerously good to pretend to be someone successful, to be the guy fresh out of college with a shiny, pretty boyfriend and perspectives in life bigger than getting a big tip for a good blowjob to scramble together the money for more studio time and pay back his student loans.

 

“You ready?” Pete interrupts him, and Patrick finds himself back in reality. Which is work, bringing him into Pete’s house once more, all dressed up and waiting to be taken to yet another social event. Is it ironic they both hate these, yet need to go there for their jobs? No. No it isn’t. Patrick pushes the thought away; he’s an escort and Pete is some rich LA guy hiring him to look pretty and ride his cock, there’s no other connection.

“Sure,” Patrick says with a smile, readjusts his hat, gets off the bed. It’s been vacant for now, but he knows he’ll find himself back in here later today. Sex with this client isn’t the worst but then again, Patrick has kind of lost perspective because his standards are astronomically low these days. Now that he knows what Pete likes, he can do everything on autopilot. Smile, laugh, kiss when and where it seems appropriate, some teasing touches, do something with his mouth – his lips are one of his selling points, the agency keeps insisting – give his client something to look at. Pete doesn’t want him too passive but at least Patrick usually gets an orgasm out of it too. It’s just by-the-book intercourse. Attentiveness on, emotions off.

Or at least, that’s what Patrick is holding onto so far.

Pete’s name has slipped into his consciousness, wormed its way inside his brain and poisoned his thoughts. Patrick hates it when they have a name. He’d have rather stuck with _birthday guy_.

Pete stretches out his hand to him, and Patrick takes it. “You alright?” Pete asks, and Patrick wants to tell him to shut up and stop worrying. He doesn’t, because he’s a professional, and because it scares him. Pete shouldn’t have that much emotional power over him. It’s a simple question, so Patrick forces himself to answer with a simple “sure, I’m good”.

Pete grins at him, like the fool he is, and then they’re off for the evening.

  


Patrick isn’t quite sure what the party is for, Pete doesn’t seem to know either – he claims he is here for connections, mostly – all Patrick knows is that they’re at someone’s giant mansion, that there is loud music, plates of tiny food carried by semi-dressed waiters (colleagues in spirit to him, Patrick feels the most related to the bikini-clad girls rather than any other guest), there’s important people to talk to and that’s basically what Pete does all evening, Patrick in tow for support. It’s an easy job, Patrick’s come to appreciate it, Pete is charismatic, full of pent-up energy, he carries the conversation and there isn’t much more to do for Patrick then to make some harmless witty jokes, smile, get Pete a glass of water or anything else that’s non-alcoholic. He’s never had a sober client before, but so far, Pete seems fine on handling it on his own, and if not, he either has his sponsor on speed-dial or can be distracted in a quiet corner with some making out and hands shoved down his pants. Pete is an easy client. Patrick should be grateful.

Instead, Patrick finds himself wishing Pete were just the regular Hollywood jerk who gets drunk, gets off on power and two minutes of jackrabbit sex – oh God, now Patrick is starting with the rabbit bullshit, too. Patrick can read most of his clients well (it’s not like their needs differ all too much, he is here for a job after all) and Pete isn’t difficult to read either, it’s just that Patrick doesn’t feel comfortable with what he reads into Pete’s behavior.

Or maybe, he’s too comfortable.

 

“It’s you, pastelito, isn’t it?”

 

Torn out of his thoughts, Patrick stumbles back, caught by Pete’s strong arm. “Excuse me?” Pete says, while a cold feeling of dread washes over Patrick.

“You could’ve told me, Pete. I’m your friend, and I find out about your boyfriend through fucking gossip pieces on the internet?” The tall man in front of them doesn't look too angry despite the accusing words; Patrick recognizes him as that guy he met the first time after Pete’s birthday party, what was his name?

“Gabe,” Pete says with a nod and an apologetic smile, “hey dude, what’s up.”

“What’s up is that new boyfriend of yours.” Gabe leans in a little closer, still towers over Patrick as he eyes him suspiciously. “What’s up is that _you_ , Pete, are now dating that little pastelito stripper.”

The dread and anxiety in Patrick only intensifies, make him clench his teeth and unintentionally shift closer to Pete. Fuck, this Gabe guy recognizes him as the escort Pete hired for his birthday, this really isn’t good, Patrick doesn’t need this right now, please.

Pete shushes his friend, waves his hand while he glances at the crowd around them. “Keep it down,” he hisses, “not everyone needs to know about the stripper part, alright?!”

Dear Lord, Pete doesn’t even try to be polite and dismiss Gabe’s claims. Great. Patrick clutches his hand into Pete’s rolled-up shirt sleeve, swallows his irritation, opens his mouth to say something clever.

 

“Actually, I’m an escort,” is what comes out to Patrick’s own surprise. He just lost his rights to complain about Pete not fighting Gabe’s claims.

 

Gabe swears in Spanish, puts a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Pete really fell for your pretty little white ass, didn’t he?”

The lack of an answer lasts for too long, and the gears in Gabe’s head turn, let him swear again before he puts his other hand on Pete’s shoulder. Patrick stiffens up even more under the touch, he doesn’t like anyone being that handsy with him unless they’re paying good money for it.

“You’re still paying him.” It’s not even a question, more of an observation.

Pete shifts nervously under Gabe’s inquiring gaze. “It just happened,” he tries to explain so lamely, Patrick almost scoffs, “we had a good time and then I was in a pinch, I needed a plus one for that stupid gala and then… Well.” Pete sure isn’t very eloquent or a good liar when he’s not armed with ink and paper.

To Patrick’s surprise, Gabe sighs heavily, pats both their shoulders before finally letting go, then just says: “You’re really in trouble.”

Somehow, Patrick feels himself included.

“I’m good,” Pete insists with the stubbornness and defiance of a three-year old caught with his hands in the candy jar. Patrick decides it’s best to smile innocuously. Neither seems to convince Gabe.

 

Thankfully, Gabe decides to change the topic when he turns back to Patrick to ask: “Yo, pastelito. Is Pete being a good boy? No drugs? No drinks?” 

Pete furrows his brows. “Hey, I’m right here!”

“Uhm...” Now that he’s forced to speak up, Patrick finds himself at a lack of words. “Pete’s doing great,” Patrick says with a nervous chuckle, “no – no drugs, and he never drinks. Not when I’m around at least.”

“Not _ever_ ,” Pete adds aggressively, then punches Gabe’s chest lightly. “It’s been almost 500 days, and I’m going strong, okay?” In turn, Gabe tousles Pete’s jet-black hair, with a proud gleam in his eyes.

“That’s fucking awesome,” he says softly while Pete tries to arrange his outdated scene kid fringe again. “I’m so happy to hear that.”

 

Another awkward silence between them is filled with music and the chit-chat of other people around them; it’s heavy with the unsaid things between old friends and new fake lovers.

 

“I’ll see you around, I guess. Take care,” Gabe eventually says, barely audible over the party noise, and again, why does Patrick feel like these words are addressed at him as well? Gabe hugs Pete, hugs Patrick as well – a slightly awkward ordeal given their difference in size – and Gabe sends them both a look that makes Patrick more uncomfortable than any of the predatory glares he’s received from other guests over the course of this evening.

They’re left behind with their own heavy thoughts and heavy feelings, which is ridiculous, Gabe hasn’t said anything out of the ordinary so why does Patrick feel like he’s received a warning, a plea for Pete’s well-being, a welcome into a part of Pete’s life he was never supposed to venture?

Pete takes his hand, leans in a little. “Let’s go home,” he whispers over the noise of the outer world, and Patrick shouldn’t be so happy when he nods in agreement, but he tries to think nothing of it.

  
  
  


Back at Pete’s, away from prying eyes and concerned friends, Patrick is in familiar territory again, both emotionally and literally as they’re in bed already, both undressed, Patrick straddling Pete’s thighs, just waiting for his client to make up his mind.

 

“I, well,” Pete says in that sheepish, shy voice that Patrick has come to fear in clients because they all say what he says next, too, “I have a… Special request tonight…?”

Internally, Patrick sighs. It’s not uncommon for regulars to start out fairly vanilla before they grow accustomed enough to escorts to come out with their more outlandish demands. Of course, it was only a matter of time until this client would reveal his deepest, darkest fantasy, too.

Externally, Patrick smiles seductively, runs his finger over the thorns around Pete’s neck. “A special request just for me?” He whispers, batting his lashes, “and what would that be?”

Pete clears his throat. “I’m not sure if you offer it,” oh dear God, that doesn’t sound good, just as Patrick was starting to consider him an easy client, “so just tell me if it’s alright.”

 

Best to get it over with. Patrick leans forward, brushes a kiss over Pete’s lips. “What do you want, stud?”

 

“So, uh. Do you top?”

 

Okay, that is not what Patrick expected. It’s not that no one hires escorts to top, it’s just that usually, that isn’t Patrick’s niche. His clients want him to be small and cute and sassy. They want dominance, their power bottom fantasy come true, they want the jailbait boy to be taught a lesson. In short, they want to stick their dick in Patrick, not the other way around. Apparently it’s one thing to fuck an escort, but it’s another to get fucked by one.

There’s a moment of awkward silence, where Patrick isn’t sure what to say. “Do you _want_ me to top?” He finally asks, uncertainty tainting the carefree, open-minded attitude he should display.

“That’s not what I asked,” Pete answers, brows furrowed slightly. “I want to know if you top, too.”

That doesn’t help much either. Patrick bites his lip, mind racing to what’s the best answer. He needs to keep his client happy. Would he like to hear a yes, hear the truth in that Patrick enjoys some variety from time to time? Or would he like to hear a no, keep the innocent, pure image of the eager bottom? Pete is tense beneath him, it seems to be an important question, and Patrick wishes they wouldn’t have to discuss this while he’s naked and vulnerable.

 

“I do,” Patrick blurts out, hands already balled into fists just in case. “Sometimes. I mean – if you don’t want – if you don’t like -” He jerks back when Pete reaches for his face, hating himself for being so on the edge and hating Pete for looking so damn concerned again. His hand is warm and gentle against his face, a reassuring gesture. Right answer. Patrick is safe again.

 

“I like. In fact, I, well. I want you to top me tonight. Would you do that?”

 

It’s a simple question, an easy request. Nothing outlandish, nothing Patrick would outright deny. There’s no reason to hesitate, and no reason to deny. He’s working, after all, this isn’t for his pleasure, it’s for Pete’s. The paying customer. “Sure,” Patrick therefore says as seductively as he can, lips in a smile, his hand back on the inked skin beneath him, “I would love to...”

They trade kisses, slow and deliberate, Pete’s hand finding its way to Patrick’s dick. Time to stop overthinking. All Patrick needs to do is stick to the rules.

 

“How do you want it?” Patrick whispers in between two kisses, searching for any unsaid answer in his client’s light-brown eyes. They’re pretty, even without the eyeliner from his youth – Patrick has done his research, alright? - and they look weirdly nervous.

He doesn’t get an answer immediately, but Patrick knows not to pry. It’s best to just give a few more kisses, some moans, _show active interest in the client’s wishes_ as the agency phrases it nicely. Pete will talk. They all do eventually.  


“You gotta be slow,” Pete finally whispers, “I’m not – I haven’t done this in a while.”

Good, he’s got his client talking, time to get the setup ready. “How long is a while?” Patrick purrs as he slowly sits up, wondering if he’ll get an honest answer of if maybe, Pete is one of these guys who’s too manly to admit they’d like a dick up their ass to any other (not paid) partner in bed.

 

Pete gives him a crooked grin, flashing too-big teeth and a hint of sadness. “At least 482 days and counting.”

 

That’s oddly specific, and Patrick can’t help but chuckle a little. “You keep track of it or what?”

 

Pete shrugs. “Haven’t bottomed since I got sober,” he explains, “which means 482 days, at least. I can’t say… I don’t know exactly what happened before. I was pretty out of it and had a string of bad hookups… I’d rather not think about it anyway. It doesn’t matter. I want a good, sober experience. I want you to be the first.” 

“First?” Patrick’s mouth feels dry. “You’re not a virgin. This isn’t a first. Don’t be so dramatic.” Patrick tells himself he’s being clever and sassy, not anxious and concerned.

Despite his rudeness, Pete laughs a little at his, warm and ugly and like he knows something Patrick doesn’t. “You’re so cute, bun-bun.”

There’s a whole story behind Pete’s smile, untold words and emotions Patrick doesn’t want to burden himself with. He’s – he’s just here for sex, damnit, not to fix his client’s tragic life story.

 

“So if this is kind of a big deal,” Patrick mumbles, “why do you want it to be me?”

Pete’s still smiling at him, and the curve of his lips hold all the answers that Patrick doesn’t want to hear, all the promises Patrick knows neither of them can keep. Time seems to stand still when their eyes lock, seeing something in each other that shouldn’t – can’t – no. No.

Pete doesn’t go there, and Patrick is both relieved and frightened at the same time. Happy because it saves him the mess, frightened because that cold feeling in his chest is oddly close to disappointment.

“I’d just like someone I can trust,” Pete says instead with less distance in his voice than probably intended, “and who better to trust than a professional hooker?”

“Escort,” Patrick snaps back without thinking, “I’m a goddamn _escort_ , okay?!”

 

Bad, this is bad, he’s not supposed to break character and remind the customer that he’s only paid to play the boyfriend. Before he can get himself in more trouble, Patrick gets up, stomps over to his bag to get the lube and condoms. The sooner they can get this stupid shit over with, the better. The less this client talks, the less wrong answers Patrick can give.

 

Back in bed, Pete sits up, looking thoughtful rather than angry. Although Patrick knows that he isn’t violent, has never harmed him in any way, part of him is still thankful. “I’m sorry,” he hears Pete say in a quiet voice, and it sounds honest. There’s not a lot of honesty in this business, so Patrick can appreciate that. Still, it’s time to turn this around. No more getting angry, and no goddamn apologies or pity or anything else Patrick doesn’t need. No, what he needs is to get back into control and just – just do his work.

“Professional escort,” Patrick repeats as he puts his stuff on the otherwise empty bedside table, “and don’t you worry, I’m very, very good at my job.”

It’s a cheap line, yet Pete still chuckles, leans back into the pillows. “Oh yeah?” He says teasingly, big fat smirk on his face as Patrick straddles his lap again. “C’mon, are you gonna bark all day, little Rabbit, or are you gonna bite?”

“Can you – ah, can you not do these inappropriate movie references when we’re about to fuck?” Patrick grumbles, “keep your boner for Tarantino in your screenplays or wherever.”

“You recognized the quote!” Pete says with glee, his hands now back on Patrick’s growing hard-on. “You like it,” he smirks and fuck, why does he have to start stroking him just now so Patrick pretty much has no choice but to moan, “you _love_ it.”

 

Now, with every other client, Patrick would’ve simply nodded and agreed because a) that’s what keeps things easy and b)that’s what he’s fucking paid for. So of course, right here, right now, Patrick as the self-proclaimed professional escort opens his mouth do deliver the glorious, thoughtful rebuttal: “Fuck you.”

 

Patrick almost wishes Pete would call him out, would break the magic and ruin the moment and scold him or ask him to lay off the sass, anything that isn’t what Pete says instead, all big grin and expectant eyes: “How about _you_ fuck _me_?”

There’s no reason to grin back, no reason to be excited, and yet… Maybe it’s just his dick, growing harder in Pete’s hands, arousal taking over his brain.

“I want it to be you,” Pete repeats his earlier statement, softly and almost shyly, he’s so goddamn honest for all the wrong reasons and he shouldn’t be, he really shouldn’t, and Patrick shouldn’t encourage him.

 

But, here they are, and here Patrick can’t help but nod. “Me,” he whispers with too damn much encouragement and not enough lie behind the simple, yet way too complicated word.

 

Pete kisses him, and that’s good, if only for finally putting a stop to silly conversations. Pete touches him, and that’s great, only because it makes it easier for Patrick to get hard, of course. Pete moans when Patrick returns the favor, and that’s sweet, kinda, somehow, just a little. Pete is flushed, mouth agape, eyes half-hidden under the black veil of his lashes, and he looks beautiful, not that it matters.

Patrick kisses back, with a short interruption to sneakily grab a condom. Then, he trails kisses down Pete’s throat, over inked skin down the trail of hair to his navel, over the ugly bat-tattoo, down to his dick. Best to give the client something to look at, some fun and pleasure to focus on and take the edge off getting fingered open by an escort after four-hundred and whatever days of abstinence from drugs, alcohol, and anal sex.

“Oh fuck, yes,” he hears Pete whisper, lust in his voice and hunger in his eyes as he spreads his legs, sits up a little. Bingo. Patrick’s right, and Pete is just another client.

A few more strokes to test if the condom sits right, then Patrick leans forward, tip of his tongue darting out to give the head of Pete’s cock a teasing stroke. It’s just routine, Patrick tells himself, he’s sucked Pete’s dick before, Patrick reminds himself, Pete’s lust-drunk eyes and the lovely smile are just because of his superb blowjob skills, Patrick’s sure that is, no, _has_ to be the only valid explanation.

Patrick goes slow, like requested, lubed-up fingers teasing over Pete’s entrance, trying to get him to relax, the pad of his fingers testing the dwindling resistance. Once Pete is over his nervousness, it becomes clear it’s not his first time bottoming, he knows what he likes, he moans when Patrick repeatedly rubs over his prostate, and Patrick feels comfortable enough to withdraw his mouth from Pete’s cock to focus on opening him up.

“Missionary should be easiest for you,” Patrick mutters, he’s still working, he needs to look out for Pete because that’s his job. “Or, if that’s too boring for you, maybe spooning…?”

 

Pete laughs again, he’s really enjoying this too much already. “I doubt any position will be boring with _you_ , bun-bun” he says with a smirk, “let’s keep it classy, and go with Missionary.”

 

Really, it’s all just routine even if it’s usually Patrick that’s on the receiving end, it’s just stupid brain chemistry and the irresistible tight heat of Pete’s welcoming body when Patrick carefully bottoms out, slowly sinks his dick into Pete while keeping a worried eye on his reaction. Patrick finds himself too fucking glad when all Pete displays is his own hard cock (still condom-clad and spit-wet from the blowjob), curved up against his stomach, and all the eagerness to go on. Really, it’s probably just professional pride on Patrick’s side, or that’s what he tells himself when he smiles back at his client, reaches for Pete’s throbbing hard-on, marvels at the contrast of deft white fingers and the thick, blood-red dick they’re holding.

“I got you,” Patrick whispers reassuringly, and Pete nods, he’s so fucking _trusting_ and Patrick doesn’t know what to make of the warm feeling in his stomach upon realizing that.

 

There’s no sense of hurry, Pete has asked him to go slow, Patrick’s here to stay the night, and maybe it’s enjoyable for once to not have a simple rush to an orgasm, an overblown fuck-fest, but just… Sex. Careful, deliberate thrusts, eye-contact, Pete giggling whenever they change their position to his liking – Pete adjusting his legs, matching the roll of his hips to Patrick’s rhythm, Patrick stroking the aching length of his dick, them leaning in for a sweet, shared kiss.

 

“I’m greedy,” Pete pants between two kisses, “I’m greedy, I wanna come first.” 

“Whatever you want,” Patrick whispers back, because – because – it just feels right to says that.

 

Stamina has never been Patrick’s problem, even though he hasn’t topped in a while either, he can do this, he can get Pete off first despite being frustratingly close himself. It’s worth for Pete’s loud moans, the way he groans when Patrick slams into him harder, faster, the way Pete cries out, tenses up as he finally comes, clenching tight around Patrick’s dick and filling up the condom with his cum. Patrick fleetingly thinks he should ask for permission, should stop, shouldn’t enjoy himself like this in the first place but all he can do is blurt out a “fuck, Pete, I’m gonna come as well,” and sigh in relief when Pete nods eagerly before his own orgasm washes over him, different from when he’s bottoming, more intense from what he expected, better from what it should feel like to come with a client.

 

Why must Pete keep on having this effect on him?

 

Sweaty and exhausted and coming down from his high, Patrick stays silent as he pulls out, deals with the messy condoms, walks over to the bathroom intending to get a washcloth. Instead, Pete follows him, a slight limp in his gait and a big grin on his face. “Wanna take a shower together?” He asks, and Patrick nods even though he would rather be alone. The warm water feels nice against his skin at least, and Pete doesn’t seem to have any other demands; he just hugs Patrick as the hot water washes over them, cleans away sweat and lube and the occasional stray tear from Patrick’s shut eyes. Pete doesn't notice, and Patrick is very glad for that, because he doesn't have an explanation for them either. He just holds on tighter to Pete, and tries to think of nothing.

 Back in bed, Patrick’s wearing shorts and a Metallica shirt Pete gave him for the night, matching the one Pete is wearing; he feels tired and drained and he doesn’t want to talk anymore, doesn't want to make stupid light hearted jokes or witty remarks or be sassy or anything else the agency would want him to be. He’s so grateful that Pete seems to notice, and although Pete looks like he wants to say something, he thinks better of it, just gathers Patrick into his arms for the usual cuddling, and leaves him to catch some sleep.

 

When Patrick wakes up, he is alone. Nothing unusual, by now, he knows of Pete’s insomnia. Patrick grabs his spare clothes and his phone, locks himself into the bathroom. He lets the water run in the background as he makes his usual call to the agency, then to Will.

“Another night with the famous boyfriend?” Will teases him; Patrick lets him, because it is better than the usual worry. “How did it go?”

“I just want to go home,” Patrick confesses in a small voice.

A moment of silence, before Will speaks up again, this time, with the dreaded concern back in his voice: “Patrick, what happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Patrick hurries to reassure him, “I’m alright, nothing happened, I’m just… Just a bit tired. Can we hang out later? Order some pizza and watch Terminator or whatever? I just need to relax a little.”

“Sure.” He hears William clear his throat. “Also, there was a phone call for you. I think you should check your emails. Your private ones, I mean.”

 

Two minutes later, the water is still running as Patrick sits on the closed toilet lid, hands shaking, mouth agape as he re-reads the email from the Fox Newman Scoring Stage.

 

Ten minutes later, Patrick is dressed and ready and he’s composed himself enough that he is confident to step out and look for Pete. He finds him in the kitchen, together with an elaborate selection of takeout and sugary-sweet coffee from Starbucks.

 

“Hey there, little Rabbit,” he hears Pete say, “wanna have some breakfast?”

 

Patrick walks up to him, pecks a good-morning kiss to Pete’s grinning lips, hands clasped behind his back because they’re still shaking and maybe, because he’s afraid he’d hold on to Pete so tightly, it would be traitorous.

 

“Sure,” Patrick hears himself say as he forces a fake smile, “I’d love some breakfast.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, a trip out of town, some feels, and some important news...!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you all so much for your patience. 
> 
> I don't have much to say, just enjoy the chapter!

Pete is writing and writing and writing.

Word vomit fills the pages, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating his face as he keeps spilling uncomfortable truths, dressed up in fancy words, onto the page. Alcohol and drugs have left his body, yet not his mind; they pour out of him, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, manifesting in long-winded sentences and spectacular metaphors depicting decay, decadence, and despair.

If anyone can make money out of personal misery, it’s going to be Pete Wentz.

Sometimes, Pete thinks he is throwing himself into this story, this part of his life, because it keeps him from facing the other one. It protects Pete from thinking about how he’s paying for a fake boyfriend and uncomfortably real emotions. It keeps him from obsessing over Patrick. It makes him think about something other than bright blue eyes, the curve of a smile on pretty pink lips, tender touches from pale fingers. It distracts him from the black void inside his heart, yearning to be filled with something it can never get. It fills the time so Pete doesn't have to sit in his house, alone, missing a man that is but a shadow.

 

I’m in love with Patrick. I’m in love with Patrick. I’m in love with Patrick. I’minlovewithPatrick. Iminlovewithpatrickandicantbe. iminlovewith

 

Pete has written, then erased these words from his doc, neatly, one by one, watching them disappear into the digital abyss.

Since then, writing a book about his Patrick-free past has suddenly become so much more appealing. Pete will write a hundred thousand words just to not have to face the one simple sentence that’s enough to utterly ruin him in every regard.

 

Joe has secured him a book signing in Chicago, Pete’s home turf. He has nothing to show for it but old stories and old smiles and perhaps an excerpt from his latest, yet unpublished work, but Joe deems it important publicity, to drum up the hype for Pete’s next book.

It’s yet another thinly veiled test drive. Pete has passed the first, now he’s reached the advanced level.

There are still videos all over TMZ showing Pete in a hipster bookstore, drunk off his ass, slurring words into the mic. A different venue, Pete can’t recall where the hell he was, just that the blurry phone camera captured him stumbling, falling to the floor, yelling loudly; his bloody nose dirtying his shirt when someone succeeded in helping him up. Pete remembers his meticulous attention to detail when the pills took off the blurred edge of alcohol, when he’d maniacally sign book after book after book, feet tapping nervously, his smile distorted into a creepy grin.

Pete used to entertain the thought that really, it was all his Alias Jason Kingston, and surely, a person completely detached from the real Pete. He could throw Jason on like a worn-out, itchy sweater, make all the mistakes, then shrug him off and be a nice and clean Pete Wentz. Pete doesn't think so anymore. He has merely tucked Jason away into the deepest corner of his mental closet, that part that channels all the voices that want to lure him back to a drink or maybe just a little line of coke.

It’s going to be a miracle if anyone ever shows up to see him, Pete Wentz, naked and exposed, the man behind the fancy synonym and (in)famous Alias.

Over 500 days of sobriety, and a lifetime of ruin and regrets.

Even if someone does show up, Pete isn’t quite sure yet how well his fans will take yet another personal book about the perhaps not always relatable struggles of addiction; when there’s no blood, gore, or metaphorical stories to hide behind.

 

They liked Gray, but will they like Pete in Blue?

 

So Good In Blue, that’s the name Pete has given his little draft, and he has this book deal, sure, but if it underperforms, he can still get dropped. They’ve made enough money out of him, will continue to do so, there’s enough other mediocre writers fighting over book deals and screenplays in Hollywood. Perhaps, people will grow sick of reading him lament about tragedy. Perhaps, Pete will need to pick up less prestigious work. Perhaps, Pete won’t be able to afford an oversized estate and a fake luxurious escort boyfriend anymore. Perhaps…

Travie would tell him to drop the thought, just like Pete is supposed to drop the thought that he could really use a little bit of tequila right now, just a shot, the burn down his throat, salt and lemon on his tongue, and the world would be a little better -

Drop the thought, Pete tells himself again, there has to be something to make the event more bearable.

Pete decides that something will be a certain little boyfriend.

Joe will hate it, for sure, but what’s he to do? He can’t exactly forbid Pete from this BYOB – bring your own boyfriend. And everyone thinks that’s Patrick.

 

The escort agency does not seem too pleased about Pete’s request of taking Patrick on a trip out of state. Pete agrees to whatever legal terms are thrown at him, confirms he’ll pay whatever, that it’s a one-time thing and that yes, of course he will be patient and wait for Patrick’s approval. He hangs up, and mails Joe that he will have a plus one.

Next day, the escort agency tells him Patrick will accompany him. Pete’s never had a doubt, anyway.

He is to meet Patrick at their hotel in Chicago, which is a shame, Pete’s hoped to have Patrick to accompany him on the flight. In the end, there’s nothing he can do but agree, and make a mental note to beg Joe to have mercy on him and hold his hand.

 

“You shouldn’t fly out your fake boyfriend to a professional event,” is what Joe says when Pete asks, “for the love of God, Pete, talk to your therapist about it and get an actual boyfriend, please.”

“I talk to her once a week already, and I’m happy with my personal arrangements,” Pete answers, neither of which is really a lie, just what he’d call his own personal spin on the truth. Words to dress up and distract from the truth. Which, after all, Pete has made an entire career out of. “Please just sit with me? I can’t go into this death machine alone.”

Joe sighs. “You managed before.”

“Because I was so out of my mind, I barely remembered my own name.”

Joe sighs again, promises he will be there.

 

“Why the hell are you bringing the escort with you?” Is what Travie says when Pete tells him about his plans.

Pete fiddles with his Starbucks cup. “Emotional support?” He offers as an answer so weak, Travie merely shakes his head.

“You should be careful.” Travie pries the Starbucks cup out of Pete’s hand, forcing Pete to look up and acknowledge him. “You’re investing too much effort and emotion into this guy. Staying sober is your utmost priority, Pete. Running away to Chicago with an escort you pay for a faked relationship does not seem helpful to me.”

Pete bites his lip, and lowers his head again to stare at his empty hands. What a very befitting sight.

“Seriously,” Travie is not done yet, it seems, “Pete, you know how easy it is to slip into another addiction. Be honest, are you on your way to become a sex addict?”

With an outraged scoff, Pete vehemently shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I’m not – I don’t just hire him for sex.”

Travie cocks his head, brows raised, calmly asks: “Then why do you hire him?”

Such a simply question should really just merit a simple answer. And yet, Pete finds himself struggling for words. Indeed, why does he hire Patrick, and Patrick alone? He’s never tried another escort. He hasn’t had sex with anyone else ever since.

Pete knows exactly why, but he’s erased the words from his screen, and banished them from his thoughts.

“Because it’s easy,” is the answer Pete finally settles on. It’s not a lie, he’s just holding back a big part of a truth he’d rather not face right now. That seems to be a common thing these days.

“So is alcohol. So are the drugs. You can’t always go for the easiest route – you’ve seen where it leads.” Travie makes a gesture with his hands, towards the two empty cups of overpriced coffee and everything they stand for.

“I know,” Pete mumbles, and he can feel the dawn of a headache pounding in his head. Travie hands him back his cup, still half-full with now cold, artificially sweetened caramel macchiato.

“Take care,” Travie says in a gentle tone that Pete feels utterly undeserving of.

Pete doesn't answer him.

  


“You’re taking little pastelito with you?”

Pete just sighs deeply. He’s hoped to find a bit more support of his irrational ideas with Gabe, alas, the tone of Gabe’s voice is not very promising. They’re out at one of the bars Gabe co-owns (at least, that’s how Pete understands it), surrounded by middle-aged, upper middle class people having a drink (or two, or too many) after work, and Pete feels entirely lame for having a glass bottle of Coca Cola in front of him rather than a pint of beer like everyone else.

“It’s just for fun.” Pete takes a sip, pulls a face. God, this tasted so much better when it was called Long Island Ice Tea and consisted mostly of hard liquor. Now, the sweetness isn’t hiding the harsh taste of alcohol, the promise of a fun night out in a posh LA club full of beautiful people and brilliant hopes of sweat, sex, and forgetting. It’s just stale and overwhelming, it makes Pete gag as he pushes the bottle away from him.

“Just for fun, huh.” Gabe looks at him with the same kind of disapproval as Travie did. Fuck, if even Gabe Saporta of all people isn’t encouraging him, that’s a very, very bad sign. “No offence, but you did a lot of fucked-up bullshit ‘just for fun’.”

“Can everyone stop, please?! You don’t need to coddle me. I’m a fucking adult, I’m over a year into my sobriety, and I’m so tired of people thinking I’ll fuck it up the second they’re not keeping me on a short leash.” Pete is torn between anger and desperation, not sure at whom these emotions are even directed.

Unfazed by Pete’s emotional outburst, Gabe leans forward, pats Pete’s knee, as if he hadn’t listened to a single word Pete just said. “Pete, you’re fake-dating a fucking stripper -”

“Escort,” Pete can’t help but chide in, only to receive an eye roll, before Gabe continues.

“An escort, then, whatever. Now, that’s dumb enough, but what’s worse is that you seem really into it. Like, a little too much.”

“I’m good,” Pete mumbles weakly, and he feels as little convincing (or convinced of himself) as he did when he told his sponsor. “Patrick’s cute. The sex is great. It’s convenient. There are rules, there are boundaries, and it’s just so much easier than if I tried actual dating. Can’t I have something nice?”

Gabe cocks his head, smiles at him despite the clear worries in his eyes. “You deserve all the nice things,” Gabe says with a small sigh, “but I’m not sure if this is one.”

“Of course it is,” Pete insists stubbornly. Patrick is precious, everything from his ridiculous little sideburns to his little honest smile he sometimes lets slip through, it’s great. Fantastic. Amazing. And a whole lot of other lame synonyms unworthy to describe him. Pete thinks it’s best to not follow this line of thoughts further down the rabbit hole. “Anyway. It’s too late to back out now. Flight’s tomorrow, and everything is paid already.”

With a sigh, Gabe leans forward again, this time to pat Pete’s shoulder. “Just make sure you’re not too late to back out of this emotional mess at all, okay?”

Pete doesn’t answer him either.

  


Death is a hair’s width away, just lurking behind a bit of steel and human hubris. The morning sun spills blood-red over the sky, and Pete has to look away.

At least Joe agreed to accompany him and hold his hand during the flight. Pete is only the tiniest bit ashamed of the tantrum he threw, but fuck it, he won’t get onto a plane himself. Aerophobia is a bitch, and one Pete doesn’t have the courage to face alone, absent friend and addictive anxiety medications. God, how he misses those. Or at least a stiff drink. Going through life sober is utterly miserable, and Pete can’t understand how his fellow passengers don’t seem to agree with him on that. 512 days, when will his brain finally accept life without alteration as the better alternative to addiction?

They make it to Chicago alive and in one piece. By the time they have their luggage, Pete has stopped checking his pulse every two seconds. By the time their cab rolls up to the hotel, Pete has stopped shaking. By the time the receptionist has handed him the keys and informed him with a professional smile that a Mr. Vaughn has inquired about his arrival, Pete can feel something other than utter dread again.

“I’d say get some sleep, but I know you won’t.” Joe looks at Pete with clear disapproval. “Just make sure you’re on time, and that your _boyfriend_ is dressed appropriately.”

Pete nods, because he can’t really argue with that; he knows today’s schedule, he knows what clothes have been picked out for him, and he knows Patrick won’t be dressed for longer than necessary anyway. With that, Joe leaves him alone, and Pete turns to the receptionist with a still slightly shaky smile, requesting that Mr. Vaughn please be told of his arrival.

Two minutes later, Pete has found his room. Just a moment after he’s entered, so has Patrick.

 

If it weren’t for the lingering aftermath of the travel (and especially the sober flight), Pete would just outright press Patrick against the next available flat surface and offer an enthusiastic welcome-blowjob. But for now, all he can muster are some careful kisses before gesturing Patrick to come inside. Patrick heads straight to the bed, anyway.

“Flying is a real bitch,” Pete groans as he sits down next to his make-believe boyfriend on the luxurious hotel bed. “Are you sure I can’t pay you to fly back with me together?”

“I doubt the agency would let me. Sending their escort with all their legal documentation to an international airport, that isn’t asking for abduction or other troubles.” Patrick scowls at him, and Pete likes how Patrick will skip the scripted sugary-sweet welcome for honest words. “You should be happy I’m here in the first place.”

“I am happy,” Pete reassures him with a wink. “I always am when I’m with you.”

Patrick makes a vague noise that Pete can’t really interpret as good or bad. He likes how Patrick doesn’t do the faked enthusiasm anymore, how he doesn’t do the equally fake bratty act either. It feels more real. In a dangerous, very addictive way that Pete has no energy to resist.

“What are we doing today?” Patrick gives his best impression of his professional smile, and Pete decides to go along with it for now.

“Book signing.” Pete sighs. “Well, I’ll give some sort of motivational speech, talk about addiction, read an excerpt of my upcoming book, and then sign my old ones. The ones people actually care about. A little like AA, except I get paid for it.”

Patrick arches his brows. “And why did you need me to fly to Chicago for this?”

There’s an answer on the tip of Pete’s tongue, and there’s a painful truth tugging at his heart. He tries to ignore them both.

“For fun?” Pete says instead, his smile as fake as Patrick’s, “for emotional support?”

Despite the many, many times he has repeated these arguments both to people and to himself, they did not become any more believable.

There’s realization lighting up Patrick’s sea-blue eyes, his mouth opening up with the need to state the obvious they both don’t want to hear.

But Patrick doesn't go there. Pete isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“Your book,” Patrick says instead, wide-eyed, voice trembling a little, he’s desperate to change the topic. “Your new book, tell me about it. What’s it about? What’s the title?”

Whatever moment they had has passed; whatever emotions were dragged to the surface are shoved back down. Pete swallows. That’s good. This is fine. If they don’t talk about it, it’s not real.

“It’s about my struggles with addiction – kind of autobiographical? Like Gray.” Pete laughs nervously, slightly disappointed when Patrick shrugs apologetically and Pete remembers he hasn’t read his semi-narcissistic first attempts at literature. “The title is So Good In Blue.”

“That’s a weird title.”

Pete shrugs, says as casually as he can: “You’d appreciate it if you ever almost choked to death on your own almost-overdose.”

“I – okay, sorry, that seems – I didn’t mean to offend you.” Patrick holds up his hands, and he seems genuinely sorry, which is sweet. Much better than the underlying fear Pete used to see in his narrowed eyes and stiff shoulders whenever Patrick said something that wasn’t syrupy-sweet hooker talk.

“You didn’t.” Pete takes Patrick’s hands into his own, gently draws him in for a tender kiss.

 

A few minutes later, Pete is on his knees for that welcome-blowjob he fantasized about. Patrick moans, a symphony of all the sweetest sounds Pete grew so fond of; he tastes like sweat and latex, heat and desire, and Pete enjoys every moment of it.

“Let me return the favor,” Patrick gasps afterwards, face still adorably pink, the spent cock between his legs a sight that makes Pete’s own cock twitch with want.

“Later,” Pete says not without regrets. “First, I gotta do my job...”

 

Pete is wearing a sensible black shirt and black pants that aren’t nearly as tight as the ones he used to wear, his hair is straightened, the eyeliner abandoned, he’s the G-rated version of himself.

“Don’t forget to smile,” Joe says as he pats Pete’s shoulder, “you’ll do fine.”

It’s not spectacular, it’s not champagne and fireworks. It’s calm, quiet, relaxed; Jason Kingston wouldn't have liked it, would’ve called it prude and boring.

 

Pete thinks he might be enjoying this.

 

As much as he actually doesn't like public speaking, it goes alright. No blackouts, people laughing at the right time, without awkwardness or anxiety taking over. The crowd is mostly older, people who likely stood by him ever since Pete was nothing but a praised new poet in the local literary scene of Chicago. Many congratulate him on the sobriety, some of them with a spark in their eyes that Pete can identify as the experience of a fellow addict. Pete smiles, at least he tries, hands sweaty and shaking, conversations blurring together after a while.

Any excuse for having taken Patrick with him on this trip become less and less believable, as Patrick doesn't – can’t – really do much aside from giving him the occasional reassuring pat on the shoulder, smile, and look like a beacon of hope and sanity amidst Pete’s anxiety. The few people up to date on gossip congratulate Pete on the relationship and each time, Pete feels like apologizing. He thanks them instead, which brings him much more joy than it should, considering there is no real relationship, and nothing to be thankful for.

Pete thinks the book signing went well.

“See? That went great!” Even Joe says as he looks at Pete with nervous pride, like he can’t really believe it. “We’ll book you a bigger venue next time. When your book is out. And then...”

Joe talks some more. Pete should listen, and Pete should be happy his career hasn’t gone downhill completely, this matters, this is important. Instead, he takes Patrick’s hand, and doesn't listen to a single word Joe is saying.

Pete thinks his career might’ve survived, but his heart is dangerously close to blowing everything up.

 

Back at the hotel, Patrick kisses him, and Pete doesn't need to think anymore.

“Thanks for being there, bun-bun,” Pete says as he fiddles with his belt.

“You were great,” Patrick assures him breathlessly as he takes off his own pants (not in a very sexy manner as always, he hasn’t gotten much better at the whole stripper/escort-thing), “very authentic.”

“Can’t help but be myself,” Pete answers as he carelessly drops his shirt to the floor, “I tried not to be, and see how that worked out...”

Patrick, now naked, chuckles as he lays his arms around Pete’s shoulder. “I happen to like you just the way you are, anyway.”

Fuck, these words should not make Pete so goddamn happy.

 

High above the city, they make out, Patrick’s back against the giant glass window that grants the view over nighttime Chicago. It looks stunning, a magnificent manifestation of mankind made out of metal, glass, and homesickness. Pete has no eyes for it – all he sees is the beautiful boy in front of him. The white rabbit disappeared into a burrow, but Pete is no Alice – he knows he can’t follow Patrick, and even if so, all he’d do is fall, and land with much less grace or luck than her. Pete can make himself the hero of his own books, but not of his own life.

Patrick turns around now, hands against the cool glass, ass pressed against Pete’s crotch. His posture is wanton, yet his eyes seem to focus more on the glow of the city outside the window. It’s Chicago, so Pete can excuse that distraction.

Pete’s lips find the warmth of Patrick’s neck, the valley of his spine, then the curve of his ass. He’s on his knees now, hands on pale skin, tongue trailing down between Patrick’s cheeks. Patrick sighs sweetly, arches his back to grant Pete better access as his tongue drags over his ass, down to his tiny hole.

Pete takes his time, works him open nice and slowly to the sound of Patrick’s melodic moans. His own erection demands attention, but Pete wants to focus on Patrick first, wants to make it good, wants to feel him open up around his tongue and finger.

“Stop it, I’m going to come,” Patrick gasps now, thighs shaking a little, hands pressed against the glass. “I don’t – not like this…”

“’s fine, you can come,” Pete assures him, but Patrick shakes his head, one hand gently but firmly pushing Pete away.

“Not like this,” Patrick repeats breathlessly, cheeks flushed and blue eyes full of determination, “I want your dick. I want to feel you inside of me. I want you as close as possible.”

 

Now, the bossy tone isn’t necessarily unusual, it is part of the character Patrick plays for him, but there’s something in his voice, something in his expression that’s not the escort speaking to a client, something a little too grave, a little too honest. Although there’s always the invisible clock hanging over their heads, counting down to the inevitable end of their shared nights, Pete has never felt that vibe of urgency that Patrick is giving off right now.

Pete grabs the condoms and more lube, lets Patrick rubber and slick him up, slides three of his own lubed-up fingers back into Patrick’s spit-wet hole. Patrick moans and gasps he he pushes back against Pete’s fingers, urges him to rub over his prostate, it’s nothing unusual either and yet, it feels off. Maybe, it’s because of what Pete said – or didn’t say – earlier, maybe it’s the change of scenery, the tall window they’re pressed against, its glass the only barricade to the noise and neon lights of Chicago.

Then, Pete finally pushes the head of his dick against Patrick’s entrance, slowly slides himself into Patrick’s tight, wanton heat; Pete rests his forehead against the back of Patrick’s head, smells sweat and sex. Once he has bottomed out, Pete stills, listens to Patrick’s breathy moans, the flicker of his pulse. He slides a hand down to Patrick’s hard cock, only to have it batted away.

“Not yet. Make it slow,” Patrick whispers with the same urgency as before, and Pete obliges.

They work out a rhythm together, slow and deliberate as Patrick requested, ignoring that the escort never requests such things, ignoring that Pete’s heart is beating way too fast, that his hands are trembling as he holds on to Patrick as if he might disappear the second Pete lets go.

Pete puts his arms around Patrick’s chest, and Patrick chuckles in a low voice as he turns around, slides his hand into Pete’s messy black hair, drags him closer for a deep kiss. It reminds Pete a little of their first time together, back when Patrick wore ridiculous bunny ears and Pete thought himself to be just a lucky customer. They’re still escort and client, and yet, so many things have changed. Pete doesn't want to think about it. Pete doesn't want to think. Pete doesn't want. Pete _doesn't_.

At least, part of what Pete wants is readily available at his fingertips, soft skin, the smell of sweat and musk, tousled reddish hair and blue eyes gleaming at him with a smirk tainted with a hint of sadness. Patrick is so beautiful against the backdrop of a nightly Chicago, so stunning with his pale skin illuminated by faint gold and neon and his cherubic lips wet from kisses, and he’s as out of reach as Pete’s home town beneath them.

“Fuck, Pete,” Patrick pants, “Pete, touch me now, please...”

Patrick is close, and he always – and _only_ – says Pete’s name when he’s about to come, which shouldn’t make it sound so bittersweet to Pete.

 

Pete does as told, lets one hand wander down to Patrick’s cock, hard and leaking. Patrick shudders when Pete starts to stroke him, groans as Pete’s fingers slide over his shaft, up to his head, wipe away a drop of pre-cum. He never breaks their rhythm though, keeps pushing back against Pete’s cock, clenching down hard each time it slams into his prostate. Pete grits his teeth, wills himself to hold back until Patrick’s orgasm, he wants to feel it, cherish it, be as close to him as possible.

Patrick keeps saying Pete’s name under his breath, a symphony of “Pete, Pete, _Pete_ ” only broken when he lets out a throaty whine as he comes undone in Pete’s hand, spilling over his belly, Pete’s fingers, and the window.

Pete closes his eyes, and lets go. He comes hard, Patrick’s name on the tip of his tongue as he does so, and Patrick’s body pressed close to his. If Pete keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend the illuminated windows of the other buildings are but a fantastical night sky in a place far away from light pollution and reality, that if he holds on tight, he doesn't have to let go of Patrick, ever.

 

But eventually, he has to open his eyes, and realize that what he sees is just a dirty city idolized by sentimentality and homesickness, and an escort he burdened with too much of his heart.

 

Pete pulls out, and while he gets rid of the condom Patrick groans, stretches his limbs, then leans against the window again. Pete leans next to him, slings an arm around his waist, and together, they watch the lively Chicago of the night.

“Beautiful, right?” Pete whispers, not knowing if he means the city, or the boy in his arms.

“More than beautiful,” Patrick answers quietly, “it’s home.”

“No way!” Pete looks at him excitedly, while Patrick keeps staring out the window. “Bun-bun, you’re from Chicago, too? Is that why you flew out here with me?”

Patrick shakes his head, eyes still fixed on the skyline outside. Pete deems it best not to pry, and hold Patrick closer as they both enjoy the view.

They only stop when Patrick starts to shiver, and Pete ushers him into the shower.

 

Clean and sated and emotionally exhausted, Pete is glad to sink into the comfy hotel bed. He takes Patrick into his arms again, and Patrick reciprocates the embrace like it’s the most natural thing to do. Pete yawns; he’s tired, and so close to falling asleep.

“Goodnight, bun-bun,” Pete mumbles as he closes his eyes.

For a while, Patrick doesn't say anything, just breathes slowly. Just as Pete thinks him asleep, Patrick whispers back: “Goodnight, Pete.”

Pete opens his eyes again. But Patrick’s head is resting on his chest, impossible to tell if he’s still awake – as if Pete stood a chance to get an answer, anyway.

  


When Pete wakes from dreamless sleep, Patrick is still asleep. Pete gently untangles from his arms, then heads to the bathroom. He shaves, showers, and when he comes out of the bathroom again, Patrick is sitting in bed, hair mussed from sleep, but fully dressed and clearly awake. The morning sun kisses his pale skin. His lips are drawn into a thin line.

Whatever happened last night, the mood has shifted.

“Hey, Patrick?” The nicknames suddenly feel out of place, so Pete decides to go with the actual name provided to him. “Are you okay?”

Patrick turns to him, slowly, as if facing Pete causes him a great deal of exhaustion. He’s smiling, but it’s a weary smile, like one would wear to hide that there isn’t a reason for a real smile.

“I’m quitting.”

Dumbfounded, Pete stares at him as he combs through his mind for an appropriate answer. “You’re quitting?” He repeats weakly. “I don’t – what do you mean?”

Patrick’s weary smile widens, like a wound torn open. “I’m quitting the agency, Pete – I’m quitting escorting altogether.”

Patrick used his name again – the escort never uses Pete’s name to address him unless they’re fucking. It takes a moment until the words sink in, make sense to Pete. “When?” he stutters, “when are you quitting?”

“Now,” Patrick answers him. “This – this was my last booking with the agency. You, here – that’s my last job.”

Still dumbfounded, Pete opens his mouth for a clever response. None comes. Last job – this is not what Pete expected. This is not how he imagined this at all. Last job – so, Patrick’s breaking up with _him_? Oh, the irony. After everything that happened, after all the well-meaning advice and concerned faces, after anxiety and sleepless nights, in the end, the burden has been finally lifted, the curtains closed, and Pete didn’t even need to lift a finger for it.

 

“So wait, you knew this was your last job?” Pete meant to not sound desperate. He absolutely does. “Why did you agree to coming here? One big fat paycheck to go out with?

“No. That’s not why I said yes,” Patrick answers hurriedly, with hurt in his eyes, “I said yes because I knew it would be the last time I ever see you. We deserved a proper last time, don’t you think? And wasn’t it nice? Your fans cheered for you, we had a great hotel room, the fantastic view over a city we both called home once... Wasn’t that marvelous?” He tries to smile for real this time, only to fail. There’s a metaphor in their situation that Pete doesn’t have the mental capacity to unpack right now. “Don’t try to tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

In lieu of an answer, Pete just sits down on the bed, in an appropriate distance from Patrick. “You should’ve said no to the job,” Pete says after a while, even though it pains him to do so.

Patrick cocks his head. “Would you have wanted that?”

“I’ve long learned to stop wanting the things I want.” Pete laughs dryly. “No, I wouldn't have wanted that, but I can’t always trust myself with what I want. No, I wouldn't have wanted that but maybe, it would’ve been better for both of us...”

“I couldn’t do it,” Patrick says in a shaky voice, “I couldn’t hurt you like that. Was that selfish? A little, perhaps. Maybe it would’ve been better, but… I wasn’t strong enough to just shrug you off and leave you behind like that.”

“You don’t need to leave me at all,” Pete hurries to assure him. “You’re quitting escorting, sure, but – we could still see each other. Without money involved. Try some real dates.”

“No,” Patrick says, and it’s visible how much it pains him to say that. “No, I can’t do that. I can’t drag my past with me. I need a clean slate and a clear head and I just… I don’t know how to handle this, us – Pete, I’m not strong enough to do this right now. I’ve got a great opportunity to finally work in the industry I wanted to enter for years, something I sacrificed so much for, fuck, the reason I started the escort job in the first place – I can’t lose that. It’s going to require all my focus, all my attention, all my devotion and energy and I’ve worked too hard to not give it my everything until the very end. You and I, we met at the wrong time, under the wrong circumstances, and we can’t just pretend otherwise. At least I can’t.”

It’s an argument Patrick has prepared for, no doubt spending sleepless nights going back and forth in his head, debating a fictional Pete, Patrick had the time to prepare himself. Pete hadn’t, and he wants to stomp his feet and point out how unfair that feels.

 

Truth is, it’s more than fair. It’s more than Pete deserves. It’s exactly what he knew he’d get one day. Parties end. The high wears off. Strippers vanish into the abyss of a life outside of paid sex and make-believe relationships.

Fools like Pete go back to being all alone.

 

“If anyone asks, tell them whatever you want,” Patrick says, just the tiniest tremble in his voice; practiced lines, no doubt repeated to himself a dozen times. “Tell them I wanted to focus on my career, or that it just didn’t work, or… Anything.”

Pete slowly shakes his head. “You and I, that story belongs to us and us alone. I didn’t and I won’t tell anyone anything. Fuck them. Fuck everything.”

There’s a sorry on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, which he holds back, no doubt knowing it won’t make either of them feel better. Patrick won’t mean it, and Pete doesn't feel like he’s owed an apology when there is nothing for Patrick to apologize for.

“I mean it,” Patrick mumbles instead. “You and I, we met at the wrong time, under the wrong circumstances.”

Pete shakes his head again, sadness tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Will there ever be a right time?”

“I don’t know. And I can’t and won’t make promises I can’t make sure I can keep.” With a deep sigh, Patrick gets up. “But you, Pete… Promise me you’ll forget me. Promise me you’ll find someone else, someone who isn’t an escort, someone who can make you happy.”

“That’s very unfair to ask of me, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Patrick answers, “about as unfair as you continuing to hire me. I never wanted to fall in love. I… You’ll heal. Promise me, okay?”

“I’ll heal,” Pete repeats with a sad smile. “Promise.”

Patrick kisses him goodbye; warm, sweet lips, mixed with salted tears and cold fear.

Pete can’t bear to turn around and watch him leave. He just hears the hotel door fall shut with a soft click, and then, Patrick is gone.

 

 

 

The whole flight back, Pete keeps his head pressed against the small window, wishing for the plane to crash. It doesn't, it gets them safely back to LA where Joe drags him through the airport, gets him into a cab, and sends him on his way home.

Pete stumbles through his front door, and he’s back in his house, but not back home. Home, that is in a different city, home, that’s in the arms of someone far out of reach; home, that’s a place Pete doesn't know anymore.

He really wants a drink.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I were a real bitch, this would be the last chapter. But, as you can see, this fic is yet unfinished - what might happen next? A happy end, at last? Or am I just a huge bitch who is prolonging everyone's suffering? You'll need to find out for yourself ;) 
> 
> Leave me a little comment, it would mean the world to me!~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! Consider leaving a little comment, it's what keeps me going! ;)  
> More art and more story yet to come...!


End file.
